Bits of Earth and RoseDust
by the swan queen
Summary: Seventeen years, one month, two weeks, three days, five hours, two minutes, and sixteen seconds. That's how old I was when I died, when I came back, when my life really began. - Tate/OC
1. Wish

**SEPTEMBER 1992**

The first thing Tate notices is her hair. It's unkempt and the brightest pink he's seen outside of nature. It's like a still from a movie: The wind blowing cotton candy coloured air as she stands in the shade beside the quad. She's wearing denim shorts with her Nirvana tank, talking to that punk kid Kevin and smoking a Marlboro and laughing. Tate is jealous; he doesn't know anything about her except that she's perfect he's really sure this time. All he will forever know is that she is the epitome of his pure need, and she is laughing at a joke Kevin made.

The bell rings just as he makes a move toward the pair.

"Hey, man," he greets Kevin as they pass. Tate had worked with the raven-haired boy on a project last spring, he seemed okay enough then; but now with the girl he seemed infinitely cool. And Tate knew the only way to connect with her might be through this mutual acquaintance.

"Hey," Kevin smiled slightly, not barely stopping to chat.

"Who's that?" Tate hears the girl question as they walk away.

He can hear the smirk in Kevin's expression when he speaks next, "That's Tate, kind of a loner."

It's then that her eyes turn back to look at him, two crashing oceans pulling him under to suffocate. And he knew right then, as the second bell rang and signaled his tardiness to Physics class, that he would gladly drown in those waves.

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><p>Tate inadvertently followed her for the rest of that school day; they had several classes together, including the Physics class he was tardy for earlier, and he spent most of the in-between time lurking behind her in a way that he tried to make seem casual. It worked all but once, when she turned those abysses upon him again as he walked by her locker. She stared while he passed before slamming the metal door and turning in the opposite direction.<p>

It would be two days before he saw her again, and this would be the first time they spoke.

He spotted her in the quad smoking again, this time sitting on a bench alone. She inhaled hard on the nicotine, blowing the foggy breath back into the atmosphere. Her hair looked as dirty as her clothing and Tate smiled as he thought of all the ways he could spread her out to make her even more unclean. Her slim hips and long legs, her eyes staring through his to read his thoughts, her lips parting in a moan as – _No, _he interrupted his own fantasy upon noticing the curious look on her face. Her perfect mouth scrunched up as she stared at a fixed point intensely. Following her eye line, Tate smirked as he observed the object of her attention.

"It's a Spotted Towhee," he informed, sitting on the bench beside her.

"What?" she questioned as she turned her head towards his voice.

"The bird you're looking at," he pointed now. "It's called a Spotted Towhee; they're native to Southern California, you know."

"Right, and who exactly gives a fuck about the Spotted Towhee?"

"You. I mean, you _were_ looking at it. But you'd be just about the only one who gives a fuck since they're practically taking over the state."

"Uh-huh. Well, you seem to give a fuck too, stranger."

"Oh, no. I just like birds. And its Tate, my name; except you already knew that because Kevin told you on Wednesday. See, I can ask _your_ name because I don't know it, but you shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer too."

"Alright, sorry, _Tate_. I'm Freyja."

"That's a beautiful name."

"Yeah, until you realize she was a Norse goddess of death who drove a chariot led by giant cats."

"I think that just makes it more beautiful," he laughed now. At the idea of such an idea, at the idea of him sitting here talking to her, at the idea of her at all.

"Uh-huh," she nodded as the bell rang. Apparently school really was out to ruin his life. She blew out her last puff of smoke into his face as she stood, stamping down on her second cigarette of the free period. "Guess I'll see you around, Tate."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Broken_ - Nine Inch Nails - released September 1992

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.


	2. Acting As Your Slave

**OCTOBER 1992**

I'd always thought that, in terms of "most shit-your-pants-terrifying experiences," nothing could beat moving to a new high school, especially if that high school was in Los Angeles. But that was before I met Tate Langdon.

Because compared to him, moving to sunny LA from cloudy Portland was a cake-walk.

It was actually fairly easy to transition into Westfield High School. Friends weren't hard to come by, since there seemed to be so many outcasts wandering around. On my first day, I'd already fallen in with this punk kid, Kevin, and his friends. Classes were pretty basic – sit down, pretend to listen while an adult rambles on about fractions and social injustice and plagiarized works of fiction and wars, spend break periods smoking in the courtyard, try to avoid anyone with a letterman jacket, and go home.

But Tate? He was a different, infinitely weirder and more complex, story. I mean, the kid had given me a discourse on the native fauna of Southern California before he even knew my name. And then once we'd officially met, he totally disappeared for half a week, only to come back to school with a lightly bruised face; and suddenly he was close friends with Kevin, no explanation given. The only thing anyone told me was that they'd been friends for a long time, but they'd had some weird on-again/off-again friendship. Kevin's only talked about Tate to say that he was "a dope kid." Which, in most senses, he was.

In fact, over the course of a few weeks, Tate became a close friend to me, too. We spent a lot of break periods together, taking "illegal" walks off campus, him pointing out various animals and places that he knew. We liked the same bands and movies, smoked the same brand of cigarettes. I dyed his hair magenta one weekend during a party at Kevin's house, because he wanted to look like Kurt Cobain. He told me about good concerts and where to buy beer underage. Really, we became two peas in a pod once he started hanging out with our group of misfits.

But there was still something about Tate that was strange, a little bit more off than anyone else I knew. At a party the weekend after I dyed his hair, he'd walked in on me half-naked with some kid from our history class, refused to speak to me for three days, then cried when he apologized in the school parking lot one afternoon. He made it clear we wouldn't talk about it again, but still acted like a big brother whenever Whatshisname or even Kevin spoke to me after that. Overall, he always acted evasive when it came to certain topics, and despite his spending nearly entire weekends at my house, I'd never even met his family. All I knew was that his father had run out on them when Tate was a kid, never to be seen again, and that his mother was apparently the neighborhood whore.

Until Halloween came, and brought with it an invitation to Tate's house for a party.

And, as they say, what a party it was.

* * *

><p>The Langdon house was… creepy, all brick and looming in the darkness. And the shitty Top 40 radio pouring out of it was <em>loud<em> as Margot, a girl who'd taken to calling herself my "best friend" since I'd lent her a lighter three weeks previous, and I walked up. She was another person Tate didn't understand my relationship with. He thought she was vapid and false, which she was; but she also lived conveniently one block away from him, which was one of the main reasons I'd befriended her in the first place.

Her house's locale was certainly useful on that night, because we were able to get to "Murder House" – as Margot had called it – early enough to find our actual friends before everyone we didn't like got there.

I was nervous to be in Tate's house, the place where he'd slept and ate and _lived_ for so long; the place where he'd grown up. But I was indelibly relieved that he was the first person my eyes met when walking in the front door.

"Freyja!" he yelled from the middle of his conversation with Stephanie, a Goth girl who was in the library every time I'd ever seen her and who everyone said was in love with Tate. And she honestly looked… sort of unhappy to see him waving me over, pulling me into a long hug. "Fuck, I'm glad to see you."

"I'm glad to see you, too," I smiled, leaning on his shoulder after our embrace ended. "Hi, it's Stephanie, right?"

"Yeah," she practically spat at me. "I'd better go find Jimmy. Bye, Tate."

"See you around, Steph!" he yelled after her as she stomped away from us to go find Jimmy, whoever the fuck that was I didn't know. Then he promptly turned toward me. "What a bitch, right?"

"Yeah," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

We both fell silent for a short moment, observing the increasingly large group of revelers in the room. And then Kevin started to walk over, and Tate pulled me out of the room what looked like a dining room from Hell. Literally, there were paintings of people burning to death and being staked through the heart.

Before I could even ask, he started explaining. "I know it's weird that you've never been here before, and that this room looks like Lucifer himself decorated it, and all that. But I wanted to show you something."

That something ended up being the basement. The dank and dirty basement with a door that required serious manhandling to open.

"Uh," I began to question, but once again Tate beat me to the punch.

"I know this is weird, too," he confirmed. "I mean, it's weird that it's a basement, but the reason for wanting to bring you down here isn't weird. This is where I spent most of my time as a kid, my clubhouse, if you will. You've already let me spend a lot of time in your family's home, despite how much you don't like your parents, and I wanted you to be able to see the place I felt most at home growing up."

"You used to spend time down here as a kid?" I implored, disbelieving as I looked around the room. "Was this your room or something? What the hell was wrong with your parents? Christ…"

"No," he laughed. "Fuck no, this wasn't my room; that's upstairs. This was just where I went when I snuck out of my room at night."

"Tate," I whispered, halfway to laughing myself.

"Yeah?"

"You're so lucky I like weird."

He looked shocked at my reaction, like he'd been walking on eggshells or hot coals since I'd gotten there; then he looked relieved, like he'd just gotten to the end of that pathway. And he started laughing, forcing the same reaction from me. It was really hard not to laugh when he was, during those sometimes brief moments of sincere happiness that we shared.

Sure as the sun rising, within a few seconds, his smile dropped.

And then he was running me into a wall, smashing his mouth onto mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _I've Suffered A Head Injury _- The Verve Pipe - released October 1992

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

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><p>AN: In the words of Marvin Gaye: "Let's get it on." AKA: Tate and Freyja are going to have somewhat extremely smutty sex in the next chapter, so be advised if you're not into that.

And just fyi, if you're one of those in the "no smut please" category, I'd just like to say that these are two teenagers based in a fandom where part of the major storyline involves sexuality. _AHS_ has major themes regarding the act of sex, so this story is going to accept that just as much as the show does. If you're really opposed to that, but would still like to continue reading the story, **all chapters involving smut will be separate from those without them, and will be marked with an asterisk (*) in the title.**

This story will also be continuing from Freyja's POV. I'm not really sure why I wrote the first chapter from 3rd person omni, because my intent from the start was to have it be told by Freyja, but... we all just have to deal with it? And a MASSIVE thank you to my reviewers! _**You guys are seriously, seriously awesome; and I can't express how much I appreciate the love.**_ xxxx


	3. Lemonzinger

**OCTOBER 1992***

Kissing Tate was easy. He wasn't forcing his tongue down my throat or trying to grope at my tits; he was just _kissing_ me, and nothing had ever felt more natural. His hands were gently rubbing against the exposed skin at my hips, and the basement's concrete wall was pressing into my back, and I couldn't help wondering why we hadn't spent our entire friendship making out.

Within minutes, I was taking off his dingy plaid shirt, staring at the pale chest of this ultimate fucking weird kid, and it was the single greatest achievement of my high school career.

I'd almost gotten the button on his jeans open before Tate was stopping me, grasping my hands tightly in his own. I tried to wrench free and continue, but then he was kissing me again.

"Not down here," he murmured forcefully, pulling away completely to pull his flannel back on.

He didn't give me a chance to ask why before we were halfway up the stairs, quickly bypassing the downstairs revelers. He only paused once, on the landing just before the upstairs hallway, to "make sure I was sure," which I was on all accounts.

In less than two minutes, we reached what I figured to be Tate's room. It was painted dark, styled dark, furnished dark – all very misunderstood teenager – with a single poster for Nirvana.

"Fucking great band," I stated as he pressed my back into the door and slammed his lips onto mine.

His shirt was half unbuttoned from our moment in the basement, and he let me remove it with ease. I immediately moved my lips to his neck, taking control of the situation despite being in the clearly submissive space, and heard him let out a small sigh. I smirked at his moment of weakness as I once more lowered my hands to the top of his ripped jeans, finally undoing the button and fly before I trailed my palms across the front of his boxers.

I could feel his desire harden at my touch, and had to fight the urge to throw him down and fuck him for all eternity. I moved slowly, kneeling to pull his jeans down, needing to see him fully – to feel him heavy and warm in my hands, wanting nothing more than to please this grunge Adonis until he screamed.

But he stopped me again, pulling me up by shoulders and practically tearing my dress off. I didn't try to fight him as he pushed me further against the wall and rubbed his palm against the outside of my panties, just above my clit.

"I hope you didn't think you were in charge tonight, Freyja," he whispered, smirking as my wetness began seeping through the thin fabric against his hand. "Not in my fucking house."

I bit my lip in lieu of answering, gasping aloud as he turned us and shoved me onto his bed.

"I get to make _you_ come tonight," Tate hissed, leaning over to press me into the mattress.

His rough hands snaked around to remove my bra. Sexually dominant Tate disappeared for a moment as he struggled to undo the clasp, glancing at me in slight embarrassment before I reached back and snapped it open. I didn't know it then, but moments like that – when we were both just awkward teenagers who didn't really know what the hell we were doing – would become my favourite ones.

After finally removing the damned obstruction, Tate immediately set his attention on my breasts, lightly pinching my nipples before lapping at them gently with his wonderful, perfect tongue.

The feeling of his mouth, combined with his hard cock pressing against me through our underwear, turned me into a moaning mess within seconds. And I almost lost is completely as he ran that tongue down my stomach, licking his way around my bellybutton.

If I had ever felt any resistance to his actions, they were gone in that moment, feeling my body perform the ultimate betrayal as my hips bucked against him once more.

He trailed his tongue across the top of my panties; his dark eyes met my gaze as he pulled the fabric down my legs and smirked in satisfaction at my soaking cunt. His smirk became a grin as he flattened his tongue against me, just where his hand had been earlier.

Before I could even stop myself, my eyes slammed shut and a moan stole its way across my lips.

Tate chuckled lightly at me, knowing he had won.

"There you go," he smiled, breathing hot air against my core. "Now who's in charge?"

"Seriously?" I half-pleaded, pulling at his now completely messy hair, desperately trying to get his mouth against me. " C'mon, Tate."

"This is a _lesson_, Freyja," he stated as his grip tightened against my thighs. "I can make you come right now, but you have to let me. Everything happening to you is _your_ decision. Just tell me I'm in charge."

He ran his tongue up my slit slowly, and I broke like a porcelain figure being thrown at a wall.

"You're in charge, Tate," I repeated. I shot him a look of purpose when he looked at me in slight surprise. "Just fuck me before I find someone else to do it."

Immediately, his mouth was on me again; licking me in long strokes, lapping up all of my wetness, before sucking his lips around my clit. I grasped his hair harshly as I moaned, egging him on. He stared right at my eyes the whole time, never once looking away, gauging my every reaction.

Then he pushed two fingers into me, licking at my clit constantly, and I tightened around him as his fingers hit that rough spot deep inside me. I was so close, _so close_… just _one_ more stroke against me… and then he stopped, removing his fingers and move completely.

I nearly screamed in frustration, pushing against his shoulders desperately as I tried to keep him going.

He slapped my hands away quickly and stood up, pulling down his boxers. I groaned as his hard length sprang up, hitting against his stomach. He stroked himself roughly a few times as I stared, but his motions stopped when I ran my hand down to try and finish myself off.

"Stop it, Frey," he commanded. I obeyed instantly, and his warm body covered mine almost as quickly. "Keep your fucking legs open."

I obeyed that instantly too, wanting nothing more than to submit so he would fuck me already. But he didn't reward my good behavior in the way I wanted, and instead of entering me, he only slid his hard cock against my throbbing sex.

He looked at me intently as he moved, and I instinctively knew exactly what he wanted from me.

"Tate, _please_," I whimpered, pulling him down to kiss me.

Immediately, he reacted and swiftly slammed his cock inside my tightness. I moaned loudly as I felt my body stretch to accommodate him, and he groaned against my neck, his warm breath causing me to shiver. He repeats his action slowly several times, pushing in and out of me with gentle force.

"Fuck," he grunted, his entire length stilling inside me for a moment. "You're not a virgin, right? _Shit_. Your pussy is squeezing me so hard."

"No, I'm not a virgin," I gasped as he pulled himself almost fully out. "I just haven't fucked anyone since we moved here. Why? Don't you like my cunt, Tate?"

By countering his dirty talk with my own, I was rewarded as he sped up his pace, slamming harder with every thrust.

"I fucking love it, but you're so tight," he groaned.

"Yeah? You like virgins, huh?" I questioned with a smile, knowing I had just cracked part of his code, found out something he rarely shared with other people.

"Every guy likes virgins," he stated bluntly, coming to a full stop and staring at me like he'd just told me a massive secret about the universe.

I half-laughed, as much of a laugh as one can muster when being drilled into by a fairly new friend. "I can pretend to be a virgin if you want me to, Tate," I smirked.

"Not tonight," he grunted, though his look of fleeting excitement didn't go unnoticed. "Tonight, I just want to fuck _you_.

And fuck me he did. He promptly quickened his thrusts to a ridiculous speed, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss as he did so. I was once again greatly enjoying his lips against mine when it happened: the head of his dick scraped against the same spot he'd pressed into with his fingers earlier.

"Right there," I gasped into his mouth. "Fuck me right there."

"You gonna come around my dick?" Tate intoned, and the only response I could form was a head nod. Trying to verbally respond was nearly beyond me at that point. "Good, then come."

At his command, I came around him hard, shaking like a leaf during a strong wind gust and yelling his name. But he neither reciprocated nor stopped moving; instead, he moved faster, more precisely, fucking me straight through my orgasm.

"Tate," I moaned desperately. It was too much, like the entire room was folding in on us and the sky was collapsing and we'd never get a chance to fuck again. I bit his shoulder to prevent from screaming out, and he just kept going, chasing down his own release.

"Talk to me," he nearly pleaded, pushing my hair back from my face. "Please, Frey. _Talk to me._"

And I did. Somehow, through the collapsing universe, I found my voice. I talked to him like he was Christ and I was finding him for the first time, like he was a rock idol and I was his groupie backstage at a concert.

"Fuck," was all I could say at first though, still barely recovered from my own high. "Your dick feels so good inside me, Tate; you've fucking ruined other boys for me now. I don't want anyone else but you inside me for the rest of my life."

It was difficult to be certain if my words had been what he was looking for, since his pace had already been incredibly quick, and I paused hoping for some kind of confirmation. When he hissed out, "Yesss," from beneath his breath, I figured it was okay.

"You gonna let me take control next time, baby? I bet you'd like that: being helpless, giving into your desires and having someone serve them to you on a warm body," I stated, halfway believing my own words. Tate would probably love to have someone fuck _him_ for once. "I'll do whatever you want. Fuck in every room of this goddamn house, in the courtyard at school where we met. I can suck you off in the backseat of Kevin's car, you can claim my mouth right there with our friends watching. You'd fucking love that, having people know this pussy belonged to you, huh?"

He hit my g-spot again, grinning through his ecstasy as my body jolted.

"_Shit,_ you feel so amazing," I cursed when he did it again. "Your cock's hits me deeper than anyone's ever has; I don't even care if it's the only one I ever get from now on. You'd probably like that too though. You want me to be only your slut, huh?"

"You _are_ only my slut," he growled. "This cunt is mine."

"Then fucking claim it, Tate," I moaned, still feeling aftershocks from my first orgasm and certain I would come again every time his hips rubbed against my sensitive clit. "Fucking come inside me and claim it."

And, finally, he did. With a loud and nearly animalistic shout, hot spurts of his seed coated my walls, setting off another orgasm for me, too. Once his dick had finishing spasming inside me, he slowly pulled out and lay down next to me.

We both fell silent for a few moments, neither quite sure what to say or what the other was thinking. Suddenly, we were just two sweaty, naked, barely drunk teenagers lying beside each other and staring at the ceiling; both sufficiently fucked.

Tate was, of course, the first one to speak.

"Did you mean what you said?" he murmured, sounding more honest than he had all night.

"About what?" I questioned back. I wasn't quite sure what had even just occurred, let alone what had been said during it.

"I mean, about-" he paused, turning on his side to look at me. "I mean about being ruined for other guys or whatever, that you want to have a repeat of this, or…"

"Tate," I whispered. "I really like you. You're one of my best friends here, and honestly – this was really nice. Whatever I said just now, I meant, but it's up to you if you want to do it again."

"Freyja, I –" he cut himself off again. "I really… _like_ you, too. And I can't think of anything better than being with you as much as possible until the day I die."

At that, I had to laugh. "Are you proposing, Langdon?"

He flushed lightly before smiling at me. He looked so beautiful – his sweat-matted hair shining in the light from the window, his perfect mouth stretched into a grin. It was one of those moments when I wanted photographic memory, so that I could keep the image of him like that forever.

"No," he said sincerely. "I'm just asking you to be my… girlfriend, I guess. If that's not weird or anything. It's just… I've wanted to be with you since I first saw you."

"We don't have to do any lameass couple stuff, right?" I questioned. "Like, I really don't know if I want to wear your Letterman jacket from track or write a dedication to you in my yearbook quote or anything."

"Done," he smiled, kissing me fully again. It was less forceful than it had been before, but just as emotional. When the kiss ended, he was looking at me like… like something treasured, like I'd never been looked at before. "Let's just go to sleep and forget the losers downstairs."

Then without even thinking to get dressed, he pulled the comforter up over our bodies and pulled me close to him.

"Goodnight, my Freyja," he whispered through the darkness.

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><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Smeared_ - Sloan - released October 1992 (Canada), January 1993 (US)

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horro Story <em>belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

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><p>1019/2013: This was once the most poorly written chapter of all time. It was weird and shitty and overall just not very good, but now I've edited it heavily. And I like it so much more. Hopefully you guys do, too.


	4. Hairspray Queen

**DECEMBER 1992**

Being Tate's girlfriend was astoundingly different from being his best friend. Before, I was just a distraction from school work and source of social interaction; after, I was everything.

Best friend still; but now I also invariably held the role of tutor, personal stylist, music consultant, concert goer, sexual partner, and – most importantly – confidante. Tate told me things he'd never told anyone else, and I did the same. But for every secret I told him, he divulged ten more. Within a week, I'd met his older siblings – Beau and Addie, who were without a doubt the loves of his life, and two of the most incredible people I'd ever encountered. It didn't seem to be odd, but Addie told me she'd never met anyone else her brother brought home. We spent long afternoons with those two, playing in the back yard and running around and being young. Tate told me all about his father leaving, and let himself cry in front of me whenever memories of the day resurfaced. I was the one he talked to when his mother lost their house a month after we started dating, screaming about how she was such a whore for even trying to keep it so long, and how she loved a building more than she loved her children.

But it took that eviction from Murder House until he let me actually meet Constance. And the moment I laid eyes upon the Wicked Witch of East LA, I knew exactly why he'd kept us apart.

"Mom, come here so you can meet Freyja," Tate yelled when her footsteps sounded on the landing of their new house. She'd just signed off with the real estate dealer next door, officially moved them out, while her children and I unpacked boxes. "My girlfriend I told you about."

She stopped outside the door when she found it open. "Oh, hello," she drew out in her Southern accent.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Langdon," I stood up to greet her.

"Yes, I imagine," she half-smiled before wiping the hand that had shook mine against her skirt. "But please don't call me Mrs. Langdon. Since Tate here's father ran out on us, my name is just Constance. So you may feel free to refer to me as such."

"Alright," I smiled in return. Maybe she wasn't as bad as everyone had told me.

But that idea went quickly out the window as she turned her attention toward her son. "Tate, my darling boy," she grinned. "You should have warned me the girl you were bringing home was so… unique. I thought maybe it was that Lauren from your science class, that nice cheerleader whose mother is in my book group."

"No, Mom," he sighed. "I showed you a picture of us that Addie took, remember? And don't talk about my girlfriend like she's not in the room when she is."

"Now, now, son; there's no need to be so touchy. I don't recall any photograph, nor any description of her at all. My goodness, she's not all that important."

"Get out," Tate yelled now. To my surprise, Constance listened to him, shutting the door on her way out, and he turned to pull me against his body. "Fucking bitch. You're the most important person in my entire life."

I smiled into his shoulder. Where Tate's father abandoned him and his mother was a crazy bitch, my father was a workaholic and my mother was apathetic toward everything in life, including me. So needless to say, Tate was the most important person in my entire life too. And I should have told him that, should have told him how much he meant to me and how much I loved him and how I felt everything he did.

But he confessed first. "I love you, Freyja," he spoke firmly with his face buried in my hair. "I _love _you."

And instead of all my own confessions, I simply stood there in his embrace. "I know, Tate; I love you too."

Years after the fact, I'd learn that Constance Langdon didn't like me because she wasn't expecting me. When Tate had announced his girlfriend would be coming over to help him unpack, she figured he meant a leggy blonde with perfect grades and a cheerleader's uniform. Tate was, in his mother's eyes, a jock; and she assumed the girl he was with would be the perfect complement to her imagined version of him.

She wasn't expecting me: bright pink hair and mediocre grades, no sports that would ever be written about on a college essay. Constance Langdon got me instead of her ideal, so she hated me just based on principle. But I was determined that she wouldn't hate me forever.

* * *

><p>The weeks of Christmas break arrived quickly, blowing into town with a late bout of the Santa Anas.<p>

My parents were leaving for the holiday; going on some trip to Bermuda so they could get away from life… and I imagined, from me considering I wasn't even invited on the vacation. Somehow I convinced them that I wouldn't do anything stupid while alone in the house. Their only stipulation to leaving me at home was that there were to be absolutely no parties and no friends over to visit without their approval first. I didn't even try it, but figured they would have given Tate said approval had I asked. He was incredibly talented at convincing them he was a perfect angel.

But somehow I found myself at the Langdon house on Christmas Eve, sneaking into Tate's room while Constance got drunk and prepped food for the next day in the kitchen.

And somehow we ended up curling up next to each other on his bed, watching an old showing of _It's A Wonderful Life_ and trying to drown out the sound of Constance's holiday music downstairs.

"Think you'd ever wish yourself out of life like that?" I asked Tate while we lay on his bed and Jimmy Stewart learned what life would be like if he didn't exist.

"Believe me, I've tried to," he muttered, pulling me closer. "Never worked out the same way though."

"You shouldn't want that, you know," I spoke seriously as I adjusted my body to look into his dark eyes. I knew he was referring to the way he cut himself, since weeks earlier he'd accidentally revealed the scars that ran up and down his arms. We both had cried for an astounding amount of time over it, and he promised he'd try to stop, but I wasn't stupid. Depression, desperation, anxiety - those things didn't go away by choice. "This entire world would suck if you weren't in it."

"I don't know if anyone would agree with you on that," he smirked and shushed me before I could argue. "This is a good part."

"Just don't ever leave without me, Tate," I insisted, tearing up within seconds of even considering a world without him around. "Please don't ever do that."

He half-smiled. "I will _always_ bring you with me," he promised, holding up his hand in the Boy Scout salute. "Now watch the movie!"

"Okay," I laughed as we turned our full attention back to the television.

It really was a good movie.

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Incesticide _- Nirvana - released December 1992

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

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><p>AN: This chapter is random, and I'm not 100% sure what it's even about because A) I wrote it a long time ago, and B) I'm not re-reading it before I post for various reasons (self-sabotage maybe, haven't decided yet.) I just really wanted to post this today because this evening I am leaving for London, and will be gone for two weeks with little internet access. It had been a while since I posted due to various reasons - a family friend, whom I also graduated high school with, killing himself a week ago being one of them, - but I wanted to keep ya'll informed. Once I get back, I _promise_ to update more; I've already got like five chapters totally done and proofread and ready to go, so those will go up when I'm home again. Until then...

THANK YOU SO DAMN MUCH to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, alerted, and - most importantly - even taken the time to _read_ this story. I say it every time, but it really does mean everything in the world to me. Your patience and kindness are just incredible to me. AND I'm going to get back to those who have reviewed ASAP, but probably not until the night I get home again; for now, PLEASE just know how much I truly appreciate it. You guys always make me somewhat pathetically tear-filled when I read the nice things you have to say. :) xxxxx


	5. Dive

**DECEMBER 1992***

"Tate," I whispered beneath a giggle as he kissed my neck. "Your mom's downstairs."

About ten minutes after insisting we pay attention to _It's A Wonderful Life_, he began to try seducing me into a fuck session.

"So what?" he muttered between pecks. "She's drunk as a skunk; she'll never know."

"But Addie might, or Beau," I insisted, now trying to push him away lightly.

He, of course, persisted. "But it's Christmas, baby. Don't I deserve a present?"

"Christmas is tomorrow."

"You won't be here tomorrow," he laughed, pinning me against his mattress and now pulling on a handful of my shirt. "Please? An _early_ present to unwrap?"

I laughed too, allowing him to pull my top up to my ribcage. "Oh, that present will be wrapped, Tate."

"That's okay too," he smiled. "So…?"

I sighed, giving into his advances and pushing my lips against his.

He pulled my sweatshirt – which was really his that I had stolen a week prior – off quickly, grinning when he realized that nothing lay underneath it. And while I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, he continued to suck on my neck, slowly moving his mouth down my chest.

Finally, his flannel slipped off his shoulders, and I was blessed with a view of his porcelain skin. Even with scars, the product of his own self-hatred, Tate was beautiful.

Stopping his journey down my body, which had reached the top of my jeans, I pulled him back up to me for a deep kiss. The action surprised him, and I took the opportunity in stride, smirking while I flipped us so my body could cover his own. Still smirking, I sat above him, rocking my hips into his once before reaching down to trail my hand below his bellybutton.

"You want your first present, Tate?" I smiled down at him, ever so slowly continuing to trail my hand across the growing bulge within his jeans.

He simply nodded in response, biting down hard on his bottom lip in an attempt to control himself.

At this submission, I raised and moved myself just enough to undo then remove first his jeans, then his boxers.

"Are you sure?" I teased, slowly stroking his hardness. Still he could only nod; I would have been satisfied had he only just allowed me to take some control, but his genuine need was far more deserving of reward.

I continue to stroke him as I lowered my mouth and sucked the large head of his cock. In an instant, Tate's rough hands were knotted into my hair as he groaned. I repeated the action several times before fully enveloping him with my mouth, suppressing my gag reflex as his dick slid down my throat. Tate groaned above me, looking down to meet my eyes as his manhood thrust in and out of my mouth. When I pulled completely off him, moving to briefly suck his balls, he let out a loud "holy shit" before sitting up fully and forcibly grabbing my face to kiss him.

As we kissed, my hand still stroking his hardness idly, he unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them half-off along with my panties. He flipped me onto my back, reclaiming control as he always did, fully removing the clothing that obscured my bottom half and reaching his hand between my legs.

"You're wet," he half-questioned, sucking the now-damp fingers into his mouth. "Did sucking my big dick get you all horny? Finally turned you on?"

I laughed at that. "You always have me turned on; you know that."

"Fuck, I love that about you," he groaned, roughly kissing me again as his hard cock slid between my thighs. Finally he entered me fully, his length filling me completely. "Merry Christmas, baby."

He flung my right leg up to his waist, tightly gripping my thigh in his hand, as he thrust inside me at a faster pace. Tate always moved hard and fast, taking me in a way that was bolder than I'd ever experienced; tonight was no different.

As the head of his cock hit that rough patch inside me, I had to clamp my palm against my mouth in an attempt to keep quiet. If Constance walked in, she'd never let us live down "committing a sin on the Lord's day;" and the last thing I ever wanted Beau or Addie exposed to was the sight of Tate fucking me into oblivion. As he continued to hit that perfect spot, the one he never missed, I began to think that maybe I should have been gagged because the feeling of his hard cock working my cunt while his family sat downstairs was just about too much.

"Shit," he sighed out as my pussy walls began to clench around him. "You gonna cum? While my mom is right in the kitchen, barely one fucking room away? You wouldn't even care if she walked in, would you?"

I shook my head. It was the truth; in the moment right before I came that night, the Virgin Mary herself could have walked into that room to scold us, and I would've just begged Tate to continue.

"Come on, Frey," he quietly growled at me.

Continuing to cut off my own voice, I pleaded him with my eyes. With just a little more time, a little more force, I'd be there. If he only worked inside me for another minute, I'd be there.

He received the attempted psychic message – just as he had every time we sat across from each other in class and I squinted at him to meet me on the beach, just as he had every time I was freaking out at midnight and needed him to be near me, just as he had every time I had something to tell him with no words since the first day we were friends.

In response to my plea, he thrust impossibly faster, moving his free hand to rub against my clit. When my walls clenched even tighter around him, he pressed hard on that nub, and that was it for me. I came nearly crying at the restriction of sound, my convulsions milking him to his own release as he coated my walls with his seed.

Once Tate had stilled inside me, he flopped down to lie next to me on the bed.

"You didn't make me wrap that present," he laughed after a few minutes of heavy breathing and silence. He stood to put back on his boxers, then threw both my panties and the shirt he'd been wearing at me.

I laughed a loud at his statement. _Typical._

"I'm on the pill anyway," I smiled, leaning into his side as he lay back down once we were somewhat dressed.

The movie was still playing on television, the little girl now saying her phrase about bells giving angels their wings.

"Maybe I should go home before the next one comes on," I sighed. "Your mom would kill us both if she found me here in the morning."

"No," Tate pleaded, turning to stare at me with his ochre eyes. "Don't leave just yet; Addie always wakes me up for presents, so Constance'll never know. Stay just until the next movie ends. It's your favourite."

And it was my favourite, _Holiday Inn, _soI stayed until the morning. Addie woke us up, giggling to herself but never uttering a word to her mother that I was there.

It was the first time Tate and I would get to spend Christmas together, even if it was only a few hours.

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><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Incesticide _- Nirvana - released December 1992

In case anyone was wondering, (which you probably weren't, but hey,): this song was _technically_ a re-release for this album, as it had previously been featured on the single for "Sliver" in '90 and a compilation from '91, but this was it's first "official"/radio release.

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

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><p>AN: Oh shit, I updated. And I'm _really_ sorry that it didn't happen sooner - work, life, excuses, etc. Next chapter it will no longer be Christmas because why the fuck I ever did that then posted it in July/June will be lost forever to me - it'll probably be summer for the next chapter, and I swear it'll get into the actual show fairly soon (so in like five chapters because that's how I roll with the word "soon.")

MASSIVE THANKS to reviewers, favoriters, alerters, and everyone who's taken any time to spend a little time with this story. I will never stop saying how much I love and appreciate ya'll for everything. Just... you're all incredible. xxxxx


	6. Get A Good Thing

**JANUARY 1993**

I spent every day with Tate after that night, up until the 2nd of the New Year, when he called in the morning to let me know he'd be away for about a week.

Those days were terrible, markedly dull as I spent it preparing for the new semester of school. But then, suddenly and all at once, he was back in my life.

And when I met him at the beach the afternoon of the 13th, he introduced me to something new: cocaine.

"Where the hell did you get that?" I asked as he pulled the small bag from his sweatshirt pocket. In the entire time of our relationship, neither of us had moved past the drugs typically available to Los Angeles teenagers: tobacco, marijuana, and alcohol.

"My friend sold it to me," Tate grinned like the cat that ate the canary.

"Your _friend_?" I questioned again, failing to name even one of our friends who would have access to cocaine.

Tate laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. He looked different, tired and somehow older, and I briefly wondered how he could had gotten so much older in just a few days, but then his smile lit up his face in the same way it always did and the thought was gone.

"Luke," he confirmed, somewhere halfway between laughter and speech. And then, sensing my still-present confusion at not having ever met someone called Luke, he continued. "I had third block physics with him last year. I thought you guys had met, but maybe not… you definitely should though. He's a cool dude."

I held my tongue about the fact that "cool dudes" probably didn't sell cocaine to kids like Tate and I, nor did they probably sell cocaine at all. And suffice it to say I let Tate's new-found vocabulary slip by. At least he was excited about something, even if it could land us in prison for an indeterminate amount of time.

Being simultaneously unaware of what to do with cocaine and disgustingly nervous to do so, Tate had to teach me. We sat down by the water at the beach, and he spoke so eloquently about the topic that he could have been teaching a mathematics lesson. I mean, he always spoke like that, like he was the smartest person in the room, because he usually _was_… but he was different that day. I could do nothing but stare at him as he intently removed a small straight razor from his pocket, – I made a mental note to ask why he had it since he hadn't cut since we spoke about it on Christmas Eve, – arranged the small powdered rock into thin lines on the back of the notebook he often carried, and told me to inhale.

"Just like that?" I exclaimed. "Tate, I've never done coke; I don't know what that's going to do to me."

"Baby," he sighed loudly, shaking his head at me like I was a child. "It's going to make you come alive."

"I'm already alive."

"Not like this," he insisted, blonde locks falling down into his eyes as he stared deeply at me. "Please, Freyja, you have to do it now… here… with me… where you're safe. You wouldn't want to do this for the first time out at a party with people you don't know; I can protect you if you're afraid. Frey, you won't even be able to believe how great you're about to feel – like the universe is finally on our side and like all the palm trees are singing for us and like _for once in this fucking life_ we are important here. And we're doing it together, so it'll be the best experience for either of us. It'll be beautiful."

I didn't know what to say. What is there ever to say to Tate when he waxes poetic about _anything_, albeit psychoactive drugs. So instead of fighting, I quickly nodded, taking the rolled up dollar bill he handed to me as I bent over the white lines. Sniffing strongly, the powder shot up the cylinder into my nose, causing me to cough once before looking to my weirdo boyfriend's reaction.

He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he quickly grabbed the money from my hand, re-rolled it, and took his own hit of the substance. And then he just went on to clean up the scene like we hadn't just done something highly illegal and intensely dangerous in a public area.

"Alright, you ready?" Tate questioned once everything was cleaned up and he'd swung an arm over my shoulder to pull me down lying next to him in the sand.

"I hope so."

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><p>And nothing. Nothing happened.<p>

Or at least not right away.

But after a few minutes laying in the crook of Tate's arm, it hit me like a piano out a fifth story window.

I'd heard about people who'd snorted cocaine and then drowned their babies in the bathtub, or had slit their own throats because they found themselves, or just gone batshit insane with no consequence. But there was a rare story or two about people like us, who – by the grace of God or just really good boyfriends – got the opposite end of the reactive spectrum. We got the euphoria.

It was beautiful. It was euphoria. It was magick. It was hot caramel sliding down a vanilla bean sundae at your grandma's house on the hottest day of the year. It was finally getting an A on that test you studied so goddamn hard for. It was the grocery store when they suddenly have your favorite food in stock. It was rain falling against the window pane just before you fall asleep. It was all your favourite actors in all your favourite movies with a soundtrack being played by all your favourite bands. It was the universe as if your favourite artist had painted it just for you to enjoy.

It was beautiful.

_Tate_ was beautiful. He was _so fucking beautiful_, lying beside me on the cooling sand as the sun creeped its way across the Pacific skyline. Tate with his beautiful halo of unkempt hair; his eyes like dark pools that knew everything and that wanted you to know everything too; his thick eyelashes brushing his cheeks every time he blinked; his bright teeth and pale lips as he stared back at me next to the ocean, smiling and smiling and smiling; his perfect broken body beneath that ridiculous sweater he always wore to hide his scars from the world, the one he hardly ever wore with me.

He was the most perfect boy I'd ever known and could ever hope to know. And I knew in that moment that I would never deserve this person.

But just as I was about to start freaking out that he was so perfect, which he would always be, and I was so shit, which was my own view at least… he kissed me and pulled me up to my feet. I looked around as I stood on weakened legs and everything was normal again; normal, but better somehow.

"How do you feel?" Tate whispered, pushing my fading-pink mane away from my face.

"I feel really good," I smiled back as I rest my hands on top of his. "We've got to do that again."

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><p>And we did. A lot.<p>

After that one evening in our place, by the waves, Tate Langdon and Freyja Bristow did some very serious amounts of cocaine.

It was good, most of the time, a total high above all else. The experiences we had drew us closer than we'd even been before, knitted us together like a tightly woven blanket. We were inseparable – a fact which some people (Constance) had a highly difficult time swallowing. But for us, it seemed like hard drugs might've been the best thing that had happened for us.

We were so happy that nothing could bring us down.

Until, of course, something did.

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Perverse _- Jesus Jones - released January 1993

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

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><p><strong>NOTE ON THE NEXT CHAPTER:<strong> I'm posting it right now because today is 4 July 2012, and the chapter takes place 4 July 1993, so it's kind of a holiday thing. Anyway, there will be some... controversial content in the next chapter (if snorting coke wasn't enough y'know) that you should be warned about. Like **non/dub-con**. It is completely **non-graphic **and**nonviolent**, but I still wanted to warn anyone who might read it just in case.

As always, MY ETERNAL GRATITUDE to anyone who cares about this story at all - reviewers, alerters, favoriters, readers, etc. I seriously wouldn't want anyone to read this story without loving these characters, without loving _Tate_; and I think ya'll really do; and it makes my heart smile okay? And as I always say: I will never stop saying it. And even if I say it a trillion times, that won't be enough. THANK YOU.


	7. Losing Control

*****_W__arning: nonviolent dub-con in first section of this chapter. As someone sensitive to that issue, it isn't triggering personally, and I think maybe I'm over-emphasizing all this, but I don't want to ever expose one of my readers to content that (for lack of a better word) upsets them. You could, within reason, skip to the second part of this chapter 'August 1993' if you're sensitive to the prelisted issues.*****_

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><p><strong>JULY 1993*<strong>

The Langdons left town for the 4th of July. That's when I cheated on Tate for the first time… and the last time.

All drunk and out-of-my-mind high at a party, I had no clue whose house I was at or who I'd gotten there with. I was walking around screaming his name at the top of my lungs and crying, "Tate! Tate, please don't be mad at me, please find me. Tate! I'm lost." After just under a year, our relationship had become one of those codependent wrecks that neither of us ever wanted, but he'd never left me before. Not really anyway.

During one of my shouts, a thin hand burnt with cigarette ash smacked across my mouth, stopped my rampage. I turned quickly to see the culprit, praying that my psychic message had somehow gone through.

It hadn't. I knew it hadn't because Tate had rough hands, strong hands, and the one that was touching me was neither. But that was okay, too.

"Kevin?" I questioned meekly, still nearly sobbing. "Do you know where Tate is? I can't find him anywhere and I-I need him. Do you know where he went?"

My punk friend sighed, pulling me into what appeared to be the dining room. He sat me down at a chair, seating himself adjacently.

He didn't let go of my arm.

"Where's Tate?" I whimpered out, looking down at my lap. My hands were shaking so hard they looked like dead leaves in an autumn maple, and blood was blooming down my arm from the elbow. I couldn't remember falling that night.

"He's not here," Kevin half-smiled, scrunching up his eyebrows. "The Langdons went on vacation this week, remember?"

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"He did, Freyja. I was there when he told you. It was right after that geeky Amir kid from history class took that yearbook photo of us on the quad."

"Oh," I sighed now. "But I need him; I'm afraid without him here."

"I'm here," my first friend in LA comforted, pulling me into a tight hug. "I'm right here. Want to go outside before the fireworks? There's no one in the backyard; you might feel safer there."

"Okay," I sniffled, letting him lead me outside by the bloodied arm.

That would turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life.

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><p>"So how is our boy Tate?" Kevin questioned once we'd found a place to sit on the grass. We were right underneath a jacaranda tree, a fact I knew only because they were Tate's favourite.<p>

"He's gooood," I slurred, leaning back on my battered elbows to stare at the purple flowers above our heads. "He's an ass for not be here, but he's always my favourite boy. Best friend after _you_, of course."

"Well, thanks very much," he laughed. "Can I ask you something potentially buzzkill serious?"

"Suuuure thing, Kevster."

"Does he treat you okay? I mean, he doesn't like… does he act weird ever or uh – You know what, nevermind," he rushed to speak.

"Tate's a _good_ person," I intoned, turning half-serious for a moment before giggling. "He'd never hurt someone he loved."

Kevin sighed. "I hope that's true. I mean, I hardly ever see _just_ you anymore, and I wanted to make sure he didn't need his ass kicked."

"Nooo," I laughed again, now fully laying down and pulling him with me in the process. "Why would you fight Tate? He's your friend, too, not just me."

"Because if he ever hurt you, I'd forced to snap his fucking neck with my bare hands, and because you deserve someone to fight for you."

"I have that already," I smiled. "It's Tate."

"Yeah well," he sighed, avoiding my eyes by staring down at the grass. "Maybe it should have been me."

It wasn't surprising, not then or any time when I thought of it after. Kevin had always been protective in that way, and Tate had always been convinced that he was a threat. But the surprised then he crashed his lips into mine, kissing me hard and tackling me to the ground as he went.

Clothes were thrown off in a rush, and we were skin-to-skin within five minutes.

"But Tate-" I tried to refuse as Kevin's lips moved down my chest.

"Shh," he silenced me. "Tate isn't here. You need him now, and he's not here. Just pretend I'm him. If you really want to me to stop, I will, but just – _please_, Freyja."

He was upset for my denial, a look that was so easy to decipher as it crossed his face. So I did pretend. I made myself believe that Kevin, my gangly punk friend, was Tate, my perfect Kurt Cobain love of my fucking life. When Kevin stuck his thin fingers inside me, I imagined they were Tate's rough digits. Wherever Kevin kissed I imagined it burning like Tate had been there. The foreign cock pressing inside me was Tate. Quietly muttered words of "so tight fucking hot perfect yes yes yes." It was all Tate. Because Tate loved me, and I loved him, and he was the one cumming inside me with a loud howl while I just barely fell over the edge with a murmured moan that said his name. It was Tate, just having a bad day and needing a release. It was Tate, feeling guilty later on for treating me like that. It was Tate; it had to be. He was there for me.

But when Kevin pulled out of me, cleaning himself off and dressing in a rush, he wasn't Tate. He had track marks covering his arms, and a flask of whiskey in his pocket, and dark greasy hair above his lanky frame. He wasn't my blonde fallen angel of a boyfriend.

Because Tate was with Constance and Addie and Beau, off in Virginia to visit family.

The boy handing me a cigarette but not my shirt before running off to defend Jimmy (that boy whom I'd finally met) in a kitchen fight? That was Kevin.

Because Tate was in Virginia, probably playing hide and seek with his siblings while their mother downed vodka. And now I was alone again, wasted under our favourite type of tree.

I was sliding on my shorts alone, running home alone, crying out for him in my bed, needing him even more after what I'd done.

But Tate was in Virginia. Probably hearing my call but not being able to answer, or not wanting to.

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><p><strong>AUGUST 1993: DIVINE HAMMER<strong>

Almost an entire month passed before I told Tate about what had happened with Kevin. For a week or so, I had half a mind not to tell him at all. But the guilt of it all consumed me. Every time we touched it felt like ice being held to my skin; and whenever an invitation arose for another house party, I declined in earnest. Finally, the week before our junior year started, Tate began to talk about how excited he was for the new school year, how things would be different because I was there, and the guilt nearly ate me alive.

"Tate," I sighed, my head resting in his lap while he played with my hair and read the newest issue of National Geographic. I'd learned early on that his fascination with nature led to his fascination with the magazine.

He looked down at me with a funny grin. "Freyja," he sighed in jest.

"Kevin and I had sex," I blurted. It seemed like one of those 'band-aid' topics; just better to rip it off quickly.

For a moment, I didn't think he was listening because there was no reaction. He just kept looking at me, only now his smile had faded.

"You fucked Kevin," he stated just before I nearly repeated myself. "When we were together? Obviously, right? You only lived here a few weeks before we started going out, so there's no way it could've happened before right?"

"It was Fourth of July," I whispered, tears already leaking. "I was wasted at this shitty party, and I couldn't figure out where you were, and Kevin was there. And I'm sorry, I was sorry the instant it happened, and I'm sorry now even more for not telling you."

"Right," he intoned, now standing up quickly and half-shoving me off of him. "So while I was being forced to spend quality time with my cocksucking mother, my girlfriend was here sucking another guy's cock. Classic. That's some real TV Land shit right there."

I didn't move from the bed, even though he was now yelling and pacing across the wood floor of his room.

"It wasn't like that," I cried. "He kept saying to just pretend he was you, and I missed you so much. We were both fucked up. It wasn't to hurt you."

"Because you'd never hurt me, right?" he questioned, now stopping mid-stride to stare at me.

"Not intentionally," I conceded. "I love you, Tate; I'd never do anything with the purpose of hurting you."

"But you _did_," he countered as he continued to pace. "Even if unintentional, you fucked up because _this_, you saying this to me, _hurts_."

Neither of us spoke for a few minutes after that. Me because I knew the damage was done with no repair in sight; him because he was obviously upset and, yes, hurt.

Yet even as he rampaged, slamming his fists into the wall and shouting incoherently, I wasn't afraid. I also knew that the hurting hadn't been intentional, and that he knew it too, and that he not only _would_ never hurt me, but that he _could_ never.

What made me scared was when he calmed down a surprisingly-short twenty minutes later. I knew from previous experience that it wasn't the eye of the storm either; it was the end.

He'd made a decision of some sort in that time, and now he was going to let me hear about it.

"Please don't break up with me," I begged before he could speak. "I love you, Tate, please."

Fear hit deeply as his attention turned back to me – his dark, tear-filled eyes meeting my own. "I would never," he spoke, breathing a sigh of relief into me. "Even in a million years, after the sun has imploded and we're all fucking destroyed from the burn, I would never do that to you."

I moved now, attempting to embrace him, but he stopped me as he continued speaking.

"I just need some time though," he stated slowly, "because looking at you is making me feel like shit. So I'm going to go meet Luke for a pick-up at the beach. And instead of you coming with me like I thought I wanted, I don't want to see your fucking face for a while."

With that, he turned on his heel, pulled on his combat boots without bothering to lace them, and left me sitting on his bed in tears.

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Picture of Health _- The Headstones - released July 1993 _Last Splash _- The Breeders - released August 1993

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><p>AN: I just can't accept characters being happy for too long without ruining everyone's lives. You will learn this about me, if you haven't already. Anyway... This was originally going to be two separate, and much longer, chapters; but I just couldn't do it. There's just a lot I need to get through with this story, and I'm so worried it's not translating without having to worry about adding new plot points. I hope you enjoyed it regardless? Was this a decent chapter? Was it okay? I'm super nervous about it for some reason, but eh.

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to EVERYONE. (Just consider this with an extension "thank you" from last chapter, since I posted them both at the same time yeah?) You guys all deserve a snack or something. xxxx


	8. Hate Paste

**SEPTEMBER 1993**

I didn't talk to anyone for weeks after Tate and my… argument. Or break-up. I wasn't sure which.

After a year in Los Angeles, I finally became the loner that I'd fully anticipated being. Except now it was my own fault.

Because it's not like people didn't try to still be my friend. Kevin tried a thousand times, inviting me out every weekend, and so did Margot, but I wasn't having it. They'd talk, and I'd sit in silence, very rarely actually hearing their words. Margot even kind of accepted it when we were at school, – she'd sit across from me at lunch every day and blather on about this or that, meaningless teenage bullshit, – but I didn't see her much on weekends.

But outside the walls of Westfield High, I became solitary.

…I also became something of a stalker in regards to Tate. Because, somehow, I figured just breathing the same air as him would help me to feel as close as lying beside him in bed had. I went to track meets, these drawn out events of repetition, and sat away from everyone else on the bleachers; and I couldn't help the smile that grew every time he won his races. I called the house every day, sometimes not speaking, but other times leaving long-winded voice messages asking him to please call me back and crying that I was sorry and _please just call me back_. On the occasion that Constance answered instead of the machine, she'd sigh in the deep way only she could before repeating the same script that he wasn't able to get to the phone.

Other than fumbling for an excuse to see him, I pretty much did nothing for an entire month. When the day seemed bright enough to get me out of bed, I'd go to school, and I'd actually gotten my grades up a bit, which endlessly pleased my father. My parents, ever so understanding, actually reveled in having me home on weekends, a goal they'd been trying to reach since I'd first learned how to climb out a window at age thirteen. But I was still miserable. I felt - and looked - like the living dead. No matter how many times Margot told me a story or I bared witness to Tate's glory in a stupid sport, I just couldn't bring myself to feel true joy again.

School was terrible without him. Weekends were terrible without him. _Everything_ was terrible without him.

One year to the date of first laying eyes on his blonde hair, and I hadn't spoken to Tate in a month. He'd been avoiding me and spending his time with cocaine instead; and, according to pretty much everyone, he "had gotten pretty fucked up," but it had only been a few weeks so I didn't see how that would be possible.

Heroin was his new thing, or at least that's what I'd heard a thousand times over from Kevin. He'd gotten really into the "drug culture" that hung around the less savory parts of town, going off the wall at parties and fighting anyone who tried to stop him. He kept insisting that nothing was wrong, that he was pissed but he'd get over it, that he just needed a couple weeks to deal, and that _yes _he'd gotten my messages.

No one ever told me if Tate was truly thinking of or missed me. I knew he was; I could feel it like I'd once been able to feel everything he did, could see it in his eyes the few times our paths had crossed…. Or at least, I had to believe he was. Even though I was the one who ruined everything, I had to believe that he was feeling some guilt about the situation, too. I had to believe he missed me more than he would tell anyone, because if he really hated me then that would be the end of everything.

In the darkest corners of my heart and the brightest patches of my soul, I was absolutely positive about three ideas. The first was that the universe was working _for _us, it always had been, but it was merely pissed off at me in that moment. I was just a teenager, and people made mistakes, and there was no way I could be hated by fate that much. The second was that I would love Tate until I died, and maybe even after that. He was the only person who mattered, even when I had been a total fuck up. The third was that if Tate stopped loving me, the apocalypse wasn't far behind, even if I had to be the one who brought it.

* * *

><p>But after that month of waiting, the universe must have grown sick of seeing me mope because, one day, there he was. Walking into the hallway from the pouring rain, all sopping hair and darkened sweater, and he didn't run away when he saw me standing with Margot and Kevin.<p>

Instead he walked over to us.

"Hey," he muttered hoarsely, standing next to me as a small puddle of rain water fell at his feet. It was clear that our friends weren't the subjects of his greeting. "Do you want to come talk with me for a minute?"

I nodded quickly, shooting a look at Margot as Tate pulled me down the hallway to his locker. Stopping beside it, he took a moment to catch his breath and take out his books, giving me ample time to observe him.

Everyone had been talking about how fucked up he'd gotten, and to be honest, he _looked_ like someone who was fucked up. There were darker circles under his eyes than there ever had been, his skin was pale as a ghost, and his hair looked like it had only just been washed by the rain. And he was shaking, genuinely trembling in a way I'd never seen him do.

When I attempted to reach out and smooth the dirty blonde locks from his damp forehead, he jumped back like someone had shot at him. I'd assumed in the time we'd been apart that he'd at the very least slept with someone else, but his body language was that of someone who'd never even been around another person, let alone been inside.

"Oh, Tate," I whispered, unmoving from my spot beside him as my hand dropped to my side. It was stupid to have touched him in the first place; we weren't together, and I had to remind myself. "I-I'm so sorry."

He didn't answer right away, just stared at me with books in hand. His dark eyes looked like never-ending pools; it would have been poetic if it hadn't been so fucking scary. Tate had always been sad, depressed and melancholy and angry, but he'd always showed his emotions through his eyes, no matter how much he tried not to. This time was different though. This _person _was different.

"I know," he eventually responded with a sigh. "I'm pissed at myself, not at you. You didn't – it wasn't what you meant, I know that, Freyja, but it still fucking hurts me that it happened. And you don't have to be sorry because really, I'm _fine_, but I miss you. I want you to still be my girlfriend if you still want to be."

"Of _course_, I do," I half-laughed as he grabbed my hand in his own and kissed me lightly on the lips.

I fought back a cringe at how differently his mouth tasted on mine. He used to be all cinnamon and tobacco, occasional biting alcohol; but that day he was dirty smoke, the taste of teeth that hadn't been brushed. But he was Tate, and he was back in my arms, so I convinced myself that it didn't really matter.

Just like that, he was Tate again.

He was perhaps a more broken version of himself, more dependent upon things other than love, more unsure of his place; but he was still the same person. It was ridiculous to ever think he wasn't. Just because his eyes shone in a different way, that meant nothing. He was still, and always would be, Tate.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Icky Mettle _- Archers of Loaf - released September1993 _  
><em>

* * *

><p>AN: I don't even know at this point. This started off as such a wee chapter since apparently it's very difficult to write them apart, so I put them back together. It feels so rushed for me though because I didn't want it to seem like I was simply breaking them up for no reason. Tate and Freyja breaking up had a point. Because everything in this story has a point. We just haven't gotten there yet.

Also, I'm not sure if I've mentioned it: the plan is to finish this off where the first season of the show finishes off. Ideally, I'd like to be finished with this all and have it posted before the second season, because I can already feel my mind breaking off into this confusing world of "wait which character of Evan's was this how does this fit in the time line what what what." But I mean, we'll see...

There's no genuinely intense excuse for my extended absence here, just y'know adult life. Don't grow up is my only advice. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, you wonderful people. xxx


	9. Frame

**NOVEMBER 1993, PART ONE***

After our brief break-up, Tate and I became close again. He was still distant some days, and missing on others; I'd often catch him just staring into nothing, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. I was different too, trying to focus more on my schoolwork after realizing college might be my only option out of the Hell that was my life. But despite the changes, we were still us. Tate was more scarred, track marks appearing on his arms; and I was more scared, my mind not knowing how to ever save him. But still – we were us.

My birthday fell on the week of our Thanksgiving break, so we spent every day of it together. Constance was obsessed with Murder House again, clawing and digging through the nice family who'd moved in, trying so _desperately _hard to get back in that house; she didn't really notice Tate and I. My parents were looking into another business opportunity in Colorado, so they weren't home again.

Which is how I ended up on my back, naked and coated in sweat, with Tate hovering over me on the bed.

He'd spent the last 20 minutes teasing me into a frenzy. Soft, slow kisses over my clit; biting my my thighs; licking and grabbing like he'd never see me again. And even once he'd entered me, he kept a _very_ slow rhythm, one that I was quite averse to after his earlier attention.

After several moments of slow thrusting, he pulled out, stopping all together. I groaned aloud, lacking any and all patience.

"Wait," he grunted, as I tried to pull him back in as I wrapped my legs around his waist. "You're still on the pill right?"

"Yes," I half-growled. "I'm not a fucking idiot – now move!"

He did as I'd asked, thrusting harder and faster and _deeper_ than he had been doing. Within minutes, I was writhing on his mattress, begging him for more. He delivered. Every time. My orgasm approached rapidly, after being so wrapped up in his touch earlier. And, as I felt myself hanging on the precipice, I realized something terrifying, something more terrifying than knowing I missed him when he was gone: I _needed_ Tate.

Not in the way I had once needed my parents, not as a fearful child in a world she didn't understand; and not in the way I needed nicotine to make it through a day in the world I still didn't understand. Not in the way my muscles needed water or my lungs needed oxygen or my entire body needed fuel.

I needed Tate in a primal way. I needed him in a way that I would never, _ever_ understand. I needed him to make it through the day just as much as anything else; needed him to assure me I was on the right path when I felt that I'd wandered; needed him to simply be there, to be Tate, just as he always had been.

And I desperately needed his release to bring about my own.

"Baby," I half-moaned, his cock hitting against my g-spot once again. "Tate, are you close? I need you to cum, Tate, I- I need you to cum inside me, please Tate, I can't-"

"Hold on, hold on," he grunted, thrusting a few times before emptying inside me, the feeling of his warmth coating me causing my own body to fall over into the abyss.

We lay there silently, as we always did after having sex. Just side by side, staring at the ceiling with our hands intertwined. It was nice like this with Tate, it was nice being able to just _be_ with him, right there, like he'd never leave. As long as we were lying beside one another, nothing mattered – drugs or grades or friends or graduation – it was just Tate and Freyja. I had never been so in love. And now that he'd forgiven me, I knew I'd never be so in love ever again. I wanted to be with Tate until the universe collapsed in on itself.

"What would you have done?" I questioned, cutting through my scattered thoughts as I turned my head to look at Tate. "If I wasn't still on the pill. Would you have cared?"

"Of course I'd have cared, but I mean…." He muttered. "I don't know. I want kids and a family but not like that."

"Do you mean not with me?" I whispered, staring into the side of his hair like I'd somehow be able to see his brains if I looked long enough. I'd seen the way other girls stared at Tate, especially now that he was on track, Stephanie had clearly been in love with him for some time, and he'd even worked with that bitchy cheerleader Chloe on a school project and said she was nice. He could have any of them, instead of the weird girl with fading pink hair. He could have his babies and family with anyone he wanted.

"Hey," Tate whispered, breaking me out of another rambling thought. "I wouldn't want anything more than to have you be my kid's mom, and to be my wife. It's always been you, Freyja, and I don't want to change that."

"Good," I smiled with a peck on his lips. "Because I'm pretty fond of you, too, so… I'd like to stick around here with you as long as possible."

"Stick around Los Angeles though? I think we should go somewhere else, away from these nightmares. We should go to New York City and live in the Village and listen to punk rock all night."

"Or we could go to Seattle and hang out with Kurt. Maybe the guys' would let us be roadies or something."

He smiled at that, a real Tate smile. It had been a while since I'd seen one – his smile that stretches broad across his face, reserved only for the absolute happiest of occasions. He'd smiled like that the day we met, and the night we started dating, and when he introduced me to Addie and Beau. He didn't smile like that much, but God was it nice to see when he did.

"Maybe."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Love Tara _- Eric's Trip - released November 1993

* * *

><p>AN: I'm writing again, which is good. This isn't any of my newer stuff though - just a little bit of smutty fluff. I am kind of obsessed with the idea that Tate had plans, however vague, before he died - plans to get the Hell out of there, away from Constance. To me, he's not the kind of kid who would just _stay_ when he was so unhappy, but then again... what the hell do I know, right? Hope you guys enjoyed. _More is coming_.


	10. In The Blood

**NOVEMBER 1993, PART TWO**

In the weeks following our reunion, it became obvious that things were changing with Tate.

School was going on break soon, and we would soon be heading into the supposedly-stressful preparing that came before senior year. It was strange to think of; I'd met Tate when I was 15, we'd been together almost the entire time I was at Westfield, and he had been the defining center of my high school life. But soon high school would be over, and then what? Neither of us was exactly looking forward to college, although I'd begun my application for several schools in the area, so we ignored the idea. We went on as though nothing happened.

Until the Harvey's presence in Murder House became one we couldn't ignore.

Lawrence Harvey was a tall, pale man with the darkest hair I'd ever seen; his wife, Lorraine, was quiet and seemed sweet; and their two young daughters were incredibly adorable. So, of course, Constance wasn't keen on any of it. The moment she had seen a susceptible idiot of a man moving in next door, she'd sunk her claws into him and refused to let go.

Their affair had started off slowly. Tate and I would be up late watching a movie in the living room, with both Addie and Beau already long asleep, and "Larry" would be sneaking up the stairs acting like he didn't see us. Or Constance would disappear in the middle of the afternoon, only to return smelling of cheap mens' cologne with her hair ruffled.

We figured Lorraine had to know what was happening, but she never stood up to her husband. She did, however, seem to cry a lot. Tate and I had often been sitting at his open bedroom window, blowing smoke out into the already-dirty air, and seen her having a series of small break-downs. She'd be sweeping up the driveway, or tending the roses in the garden, or walking down to the mailbox; then suddenly, like a guitar string, she'd break. Dropping the broom, the watering can, the magazine subscriptions, Lorraine Harvey would cry. Right out in the front yard of Los Angeles' most notorious house, where everyone could see, she would break down on an increasingly frequent basis.

It upset Tate to no end to see what his mother was doing. Despite his upbringing, or perhaps _because _of it, Tate had vowed to me long ago that he'd never betray me like that. We had stopped talking about it when _I _had betrayed _him_ that one July night, again choosing to go on like nothing had happened.

I think what got to him the most were the two girls, Margaret and Angie. They were too young to even understand, but one day they would, and they'd feel like Tate had his entire life growing up with Constance.

But regardless of the reason, Tate's gloomier personality had begun to manifest itself physically. We went on as though nothing happened when I discovered the fresh cuts on his forearms, too.

And then, just a few weeks before Christmas, the fire came. Bright and blazing throughout the sky, so sudden we didn't even understand what had set it off until we saw the ambulances arrive.

Upon hearing clear confirmation of her husband's infidelity, from the man himself, Lorraine finally stood up for herself. Gasoline and dollar store matches sent her down in a shock of horrific glory. And she took her two young daughters along for the redemption.

It came as somewhat of a relief to me, as sick as that may sound. At least they were better off in the afterlife or the ether or wherever, anything was better than life with the lying bastard they called a father. Anything was better off than living every day with the sick knowledge that their family was broken, and continuing to fracture, with no one even looking up from the wash line to deal with it.

Tate was a different story. Upon realizing that the glowing flashes shining in through the windows, illuminating his bedroom walls, were those of fire, something inside of him broke, too. He raged – flinging books across the room and breaking records, slamming his fist into the wall over and over and _over _again until his bloodied knuckles stained the paint. I'd never been truly frightened of him before until that moment, helplessly watching him break into destruction.

And then he ran.

He stormed out of the house faster than I had ever seen him move outside of a track meet, shouting at Addie to go back inside as he jogged across the lawn. I followed him, of course, and stood beside him as we watched the building burn into a funeral spire. We waited until the flames died down, half-way to burning out, before we walked back toward our refuge inside. That was when we noticed Constance – ever the picture of statuesque content, watching as a fire squad soaked her old-soon-to-be-new-again home in stagnant water from the street. And I thought Tate was going to yell at her as we approached, going to scream or kick or spit at her like he so wanted, but he didn't. He just glared in her direction like one might think a child would, though it had become quite clear that he was no silly adolescent boy anymore.

Neither of us spoke when we re-entered the house. In stark silence, we simply walked up the stairs and laid down beside one another in his bed, stepping over the broken pieces of his earlier fit. He reached into his bedside table, producing a pair of cigarettes and lighting both before handing one to me. I took it without question, puffing on it like part of a life support system.

As we smoking in the dying light, I felt Tate's hand grab hold of mine in a vice grip. I looked over at him in questioning, unsure of how to approach a topic that included the murder/suicide of a neighbor, but he didn't spare me a glance in return. He simply stared upward at the pale ceiling as I watched tears glisten on his face through the darkness.

I knew then, as my darling boy locked his sadness away from me, that we would never approach the topic of the fire. I knew that we would simply go on as we lately had and pretend nothing had happened, even if it meant pretending while we watched all the furniture leaving the house for next door. In the new world Tate and I had somehow created, the one full of strange doubt and insecurity, that fire would just be another one set beneath the mantle.

Lorraine, Angela, and Margaret Harvey all died that night in Murder House. Next door, in the inconspicuous two story, I watched in equal horror as a part of Tate Langdon died in return.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Deluxe - _Better Than Ezra - released November 1993

* * *

><p>AN: I'm the worst for posting this on Mibba a hundred years ago, but never posting it here. I'm _really really really _sorry. 3


	11. In Sadding Around

**APRIL 1994**

We'd always heard that we would live long enough to see our heroes die, that it was the curse of the human condition or some shit. But we never actually expected it to happen, and certainly not so soon.

The first monthes of 1994 flew by in a haze of avoiding Constance and planning for post-graduation with Tate and pretending like everything was _just fine really _whenever my parents asked across the dinner table between their "adult" discussions.

In reality, things had been less than fine ever since the fire happened.

Tate was drawing into himself more each day, barely eating at dinner or talking to anyone. His grades were still steady, – by the grace of some higher power, – but he'd quit participating in _all of _his extracurriculars. Instead of spending the afternoon racing around a track field, he now spent them – with me in tow – down at our secret beach, getting high enough to forget why we needed to get high in the first place. We never ventured off our simple path of drug use – weed, cigarettes, and (mainly on Tate's part) cocaine. When he wasn't high off his ass, Addie, Beau, and I seemed to be the only ones capable of getting him out of his shell for any brief period of time – though that, like most things, was ruined by Constance's selfishness.

Beau died at the end of February, pillow placed firmly over his sweet face as Lawrence Harvey smothered him. Constance tried her damnedest to play it off as a natural death, as one that had been coming for a long while, as one that relieved Beau of his human pain; but none of us were stupid. Even my mom thought it strange that "my boyfriend's deranged brother" had lived so long yet suddenly went out like a light after all that time. He didn't even get a real funeral, just a plaque in some West Hollywood graveyard.

Then came April. And Kurt died, too.

That was the hardest. Everything is life had gone from _meh _to total shit within three monthes, and now suddenly – one of the only people who ever made it feel okay was ripped from the world. Tate and I took sick days off school, moping in his bed after getting permission from my mother to "stay together in our time of need." We didn't really talk or laugh or even fuck, we just _laid there_, depressed. Now we'd never see Nirvana play live, and we'd never get to say "hey man, thanks," and we'd never have another album that moved us so deeply we cried over it, replaying it over and over until it wore thin.

I didn't know how to help Tate then. I know that I told him I loved him a lot, figuring maybe the knowledge that he was still important no matter what would help him.

_I love you,_ I'd whisper while he slept beside me. _I love you, _as we lay listening to Nevermind as loudly as it could be played. _ I love you_, when he smiled for the first time after, nearly laughing at some stupid joke I had told him. _I love you, _as I finally left to go home after over a week.

I went to school the next day in all black, still mourning and knowing Tate wouldn't be meeting me by my locker. There were a surprising amount of sad faces roaming the halls, but none who I had ever known to care much about the band. Kevin wasn't in school that day either, neither was Stephanie, or Margot… although I didn't really think any of them would be. In fact, I wasn't even sure why I had gone, but I did.

It was a quiet day, not much to be said about. The teachers droned on as if an icon hadn't just shot himself in the head while his wife and baby slept upstairs, and the lectures were fairly basic ending-of-year-finals-coming garbage, and lunch was a pathetic affair for me sitting in the courtyard completely alone.

After the final bell rung, I went straight to the Langdon house, wanting to see if Tate had started feeling any happier in the last 24 hours. Running up to his room, I could hear In Utero blasting from his speakers and knew not _much _could have changed. The light was on in the bathroom, and the door was open in his room, and when I walked over, I saw a sight I hadn't seen in almost a year.

There he was – high as a kite on the fourth of July and crying harder than ever and bleeding from his wrists. He half-heartedly attempted to wipe the coke from his nose and wrap his arms up in his sweater, but the damage was done.

"Tate," I sighed, immediately rushing to sit beside him on the bathroom floor. "No, I thought you wouldn't anymore… I just… Why do you do this to yourself? Why won't you just talk to me?"

"I just wanted to feel something," he muttered into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Frey."

Sighing again, I wrapped his arm over my shoulder and lifted him off the floor. "I know," I confirmed. "Let's just go to bed and get some gauze or something."

With much help from Tate himself, we managed to weakly and slowly make our way across the wooden floor of his bedroom to lay him down atop his black comforter. I didn't know how blood loss worked or if he'd lost enough to be truly worried or anything, but he seemed to be alright. His coloring was normal and the blood only seemed to consist of a few droplets, despite the angry red gash he had across his left arm.

I kissed the side of his head – _I love you – _as he settled down into the bed, and turned away to begin my search for bandages in that giant horrible house.

But just before I crossed over into the bathroom, he finally said it back.

"I love you too, Frey, _so fucking much,_" he breathed out so quietly I was unsure if he knew I'd heard him, unsure if he even wanted me to hear him.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_24 Hour Revenge Therapy _- Jawbreaker - released February 1994

* * *

><p><strong>THIS IS CALLED A FILLER CHAPTER.<strong> Next one is where the actual contents of the show begin. This has turned into quite a long journey we're taking – not even I knew it, to be honest, but I'm pretty pleased none the less. You'll have to excuse the inaccurate song month, but I figured since I've got several more chapters set in APRIL '94, and this one was sort of a recap of the past few months in Freyja/Tate's life, it'd be valid. More coming soon, I swear it.


	12. Kicked In

**APRIL 1994**

We were at the Murder House again, back there again since Constance fucked her way back. In the monthes following the never-spoken of fire, as I bore witness to the cunt-struck idiocy that was Larry Harvey, I'd begun to theorize that maybe he was more to blame than any of us thought, but the police reports still ruled it a suicide. And now the Langdons were back in the house, and we all got to play family.

It was fucking _stupid_, for lack of a better word. Constance was having a "family dinner" for the new… partnership between her and Larry. It was grossly macabre that she set the date for two monthes after the date on which the aforementioned sick bastard murdered Beau in his room, but Tate didn't want to deal with the whole scene alone. (And it seemed Constance was planning to drag everyone into a family dinner _every Sunday_ for the rest of our lives.)

So here we were sitting around the dining room table: Larry at the head like he could call himself _anyone_'s father, Addie to his left, an empty seat for Constance across from her lover, then Tate and I sharing the final side.

No one had said anything the entire time we'd been at the table, because Constance was in the kitchen, so things were a little tense.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the whore of Babylon stated as she walked into the room with what seemed to be half a dead pig. "The ham."

"Ah, that looks lovely," Larry commented from beside me. I had to fight the urge to scoff at him, opting instead to just tighten my grip on Tate's hand.

Constance grinned her million-dollar smile at him, setting the platter down before asking who wanted to say grace. Again, I fought the urge to scoff; she was fine with killing her own child, but Lord help her if she didn't bless the food.

Her perfect demeanor dropped a bit when Tate volunteered for the job with an eager "Mother, may I?" I shot Addie a wide-eyed look across the table as she grinned mischievously back. Larry, however, was unaware that there was anything strange going on.

"Well, of course, son," he smiled warmly at Tate. "I was hoping you would choose to become a part of this family… I look forward to getting to know you and Freyja both."

I _did_ scoff at that, receiving a glare from Constance as Tate began his 'blessing.'

"Dear God," he dead-panned. "Thank you for the salty pig meat we are about to eat, along with the rest of the indigestible swill. And thank you for our new charade of a family. My father ran away when I was only six. If I'd have known any better, I would have joined him. And also, because she's been trying to get back into this house ever since she lost it, Lord, a _big_ thank you for blinding the asshole that's doing my mother, so that he can't see what everybody knows. She doesn't really love him."

"Amen," Addie and I laughed at the same time, Tate smiling across the table at her before kissing my cheek briefly.

The adults were less than pleased with us, as Larry's smile quickly turned into a face of displeasure.

"Now Tate," he stated in a 'parental' voice. "I know that you've had a hard time making the adjustment with all the recent changes. Moving back in here after the… the tragedy that my own family went through-"

"They burned themselves alive after you were cheating on your wife with Constance, Lawrence."

I winced at this. It was true, of course, but not exactly dinner talk.

"It's nobody's fault," Larry stuttered out, fear permeating through his eyes. "_Passion_ drove her to it. One day you'll understand that there are _sacrifices_ you have to make in the name of love; one day very soon, I should imagine, as you and Freyja seem to be getting serious."

I was shocked. When did my relationship become part of the conversation? Before I could even ask, Larry was talking again.

"On a lighter note, I have reserved tickets for everybody for Saturday at our community theatre for the opening night of Brigadoon," he smiled. "I'm delighted to be debuting in the chorus."

"Really?" I muttered to Tate. "Expecting a big crowd for that one?"

"Well, I for one shall be there with bells on," Constance stated with another glare towards Tate and I.

"Thank you, darling, for being so supportive and encouraging," Larry grinned. "You have allowed me to explore another facet of myself."

_Another facet of himself? Adulterer, arsonist, murderer? Great qualities_, I thought with an eyeroll_. _

"Yay!" Addie suddenly exclaimed from across the table. "I love the theatre."

"No, Addie!" Tate practically screamed, slamming his fist down to break the plate beneath it. I jumped a t his outburst, grabbing hold of his arm in an attempt to calm him. "You're a smart girl; you know he killed our brother!"

"Stop it!" Constance injected finally, looking far more horrified than I figured she felt. "Beau died in his slumber of natural causes. Now you know he had a respiratory ailment. Your brother's in a better place! He suffered with every breath that he took!"

"He only suffered because of _you_!" he screamed again, this time with tears in his eyes.

"You know, Tate," his mother spoke firmly now. "Unlike your siblings, you were graced with so many gifts. How is it that you can't bring yourself to use them? Just a smile, or a kind word, could open the gates to heaven."

She glanced at me as she spoke that last sentence. Constance Langdon never missed a chance to make me feel inadequate about dating her 'beautiful boy,' that's for damn sure. She'd hated me from day one, and she still hated me on day… four-hundred or whatever.

Tate glared at her in one of those ways that can only be described as 'if looks could kill.' Then he grabbed my hand in his again, leaning in to speak lowly to his mother.

"No matter how much you want it," he muttered. "I will never be your perfect son."

And with that, he was stomping out of the room, pulling me after as he went.

* * *

><p>"It's fucking disgusting," Tate shouted suddenly, slamming his fists repeatedly into his desk.<p>

I jumped at the sudden sound; he'd always been moody but I'd never before been able to categorize him as violent until then. And he was shaking again, something he'd been doing since we made up the week before – small tremors wracking his body at random moments.

"Babe, please" I intoned slowly from my place sitting on his bed. "Just sit down for a minute, okay? You're freaking out over this. It's just Constance; this is who she is."

"But that guy had _kids_, Freyja!" he was basically screaming now, his face turning reddened as he paced. "She screwed up a _family_ now, not just some random dick off the street. She's ruined their family just like she ruined her own! Goddamn it!"

"Tate…" I pleaded now, standing in his way so he stopped the goddamn back-and-forth across the room. "It's going to be okay."

He stared deeply at me, half-way to hyperventilating as he did so. He looked so serious compared to the day we'd met – his angelic features were clouded with something I couldn't place. It was like a mix of fear and rage and confusion all at once. I thought for half a moment that he might just be done with the topic, but then he continued in a quiet voice.

"She hit Addie again the other day."

I gasped, a genuine and real gasp, as it felt like my heart stopped. She was horrible. She was a horrible fucking _monster_ who not only beat her own children, but she was a monster who preyed on the weakest of them, the ones who loved her the most. At the look of pure horror on my face, Tate pulled me into a tight embrace. I didn't even realize I was crying until my tears coated his dark shirt.

We stood there in silence for a few minutes, him crying into my hair as well now, until I gained the breath to speak.

"Let's leave," I muttered into his shoulder.

"What?" he sniffed, pulling back a bit to look me in the eyes and see if I was serious. I was.

"Let's leave," I repeated. "Tate, c'mon, please. Let's just _go_."

His eyes revealed his confusion as he kept staring at me. If anyone in this relationship was going to orchestrate an elaborate escape, I don't think either of us expected it to be me.

"We can't, Frey," he stated finally, almost laughing at the emphatic look on my face. "We certainly can't leave Addie with her now."

"So we'll take her with us!" I half-shouted now. There were a lot of loud volumes in this conversation. "Or we'll come back when we have another place to stay. You can't stay here with her. Let's just leave; we'll go to Chicago or New York or somewhere that isn't here. Seattle maybe – go lay flowers out for Kurt, light a candle for him. We can get away from here like we always talk about."

"No," he forced out after another quiet moment. "We _cannot_ do that right now. I don't want to do anything else but go those places with you, but to go _everywhere_ with you… but we're kids, Freyja. We wouldn't make it over a state line before we got caught, then we'd _never_ be able to be together again. We can't just leave. But I have a plan."

I was crying again by the time he finished speaking. Because of course he was right. Two teenagers can't go wandering off into the sunset, certainly not while taking care of two less-than-abled adults.

As it turns out, two teenagers can't go wandering off into the sunset at all.

But that was something I'd learn with time. When I walked home that warm night in April, I still thought maybe there was a cliché sunset scene waiting for Tate and I somewhere far off in the future.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Foolish _- Superchunk - released April 1994


	13. Red Right Hand

**APRIL 1994**

I was woken up the next morning by my mother shaking me.

"Tate's on the phone," she muttered sleepily as she promptly left my room.

Looking around me in confusion as I sat up, the realization fell on me that it wasn't _actually _morning. The sun wasn't even nearly up, my bedroom still darkened along with the sky outside. My bedside clock read 4:26AM.

I quickly got out of bed at the thought of Tate calling so early, figuring it was an emergency.

"Hello?" I asked, slightly out of breath from running through the house to reach our single household phone, which was located in the kitchen. "Tate? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Freyja," he seemed to laugh. "I was just calling to ask if you could skip out on school today. I just – I really want to be with _just you_ right now, and I figured you could come over later, after Constance goes out for the day. I, uh, I just want to see you."

"Sure, yeah," I responded quickly, trying not to sound as concerned as I had even though my worry was growing. "Uh, I could be over around ten, my parents will have left by then, so… do you want me to meet you somewhere or come earlier?"

"No," he intoned. "I want you to come over then, even later if you wanted. Like noon? Whenever, really. I'll be here."

"Ok, babe, I'll be there sometime then," I assured.

There was a great pause after I spoke, and I wasn't sure that he was still on the phone until he cleared his throat before answering.

"Sounds good," he whispered. "I love you, Freyja."

"I love you, too, Tate."

Our conversation ended with a smile on my face. Maybe we could find a way again, we could be happy and silly and young again. A few hours later, I learned that optimism would get me nowhere.

By the time I woke up and was ready to leave my house that day – after rising at the normal time and working a bit on my English final paper while I waited for time to pass – it was already 11:15am, and I figured it best to head over to see Tate.

No one answered when I rang the front door bell at the house, nor did I get a response after knocking, so I did the next best thing and walked around to the backyard. The kitchen door was open, I noted, as I saw Addie playing alone in the yard, talking to the air like she always did.

"Hey Addie!" I called to her while moving to sit on the porch steps. She turned to me with a wide grin and ran over to give me a hug.

"Frey!" she yelled. "Why are you here?"

"I'm looking for Tate," I laughed. "He told me that he'd be here. Do you know where he is?"

"No," she shook her dark-locked head. "He went to school this morning."

I paused at her statement. She looked sincere and, despite her penchant for telling stories, I knew Addie would never lie to me about Tate.

"Ok, well," I sighed, utterly confused about why I'd been told to skip school. "Do you mind if I wait for him with you? We could play a game or something. It's a nice day outside."

"Yes!" Addie shouted happily. "We can play explorers!"

"You might have to teach me that one, but let's do it, yeah?" I encouraged.

"Yeah!" she smiled before dragging me off to the back line of the yard, where the trees lay.

While Addie explained how the 'game' worked – we were jungle trekkers, the woods were giant palm trees, the ferns were dangerous poison, and any living creature was an animal we had to observe, - I couldn't help focusing on Tate. _Where was he anyway? Was he coming back? Would he really call me to stay home then go off to school himself anyway?_

I couldn't dwell too long, however, as the 'game' truly started and we were all but running through the yard in search of an animal. It was nice, playing with Addie; and it was horrible to think for my parents, but I truly wish she could've been my older sister. Even if she behaved like the younger sister often, she was still so smart, and she knew exactly the truth about things. She was carefree, unconcerned about those she didn't love and unconcerned about the opinion of anyone else. She just wanted to be herself, to have the freedom to do so. I loved her for that.

Just as she and I were tracing a map in the garden dirt, someone walked out the back door and slammed it shut, causing us to turn in surprise. It was Tate.

"Addie, please go inside," he ordered.

"C'mon, Tate, we're having fun together," I defended. "If you want to chat, it could wait, couldn't it?"

The look on his face – or what I could see of it from afar – said that it couldn't wait. I simply nodded to him before turning to Addie.

"Addie, I think you should go inside and play with your books," I explained. "Tate doesn't seem like he really wants to play just yet, but maybe in a few minutes, ok?"

"You'll get me if you start exploring again?" she asked, now standing in front of me. I nodded as she hugged me tightly, pulling away only to run inside laughing,

I turned then to look at Tate again, walking so that I was stood in front of him on the grass. As I got closer, I began to notice things – weird things – about his appearance. His hair was unwashed and hanging low around his head, his eyes were bloodshot against his sullen skin, and his outfit was entirely black with small stains on it that I couldn't identify.

"Tate," I began cautiously as I now examined him more closely. He had marks on his hand, ones that looked a hell of a lot like blood. "What's going on?"

"It's gonna be ok now, Freyja," he almost smiled. "I fixed everything. All of it."

"Nothing was broken, babe," I sighed. "What was broken?"

"Everything – the whole shitty goddamn world. Life is this _nightmare_, just this horrible thing that we're all stuck in, but I fixed it," he spoke, shaking lightly as his voice raised. He sounded like what I imagined a preacher might sound like when trying to save his congregation. It was scary, hearing it. "Blood sets people free, babe."

"You mean like, ritualistic bloodletting? I-I don't understand," I murmured. For the first time since I'd known him, I was genuinely scared of Tate – scared enough to consider running away from him and his blood stained jacket and his stigmata-bled hands. But I didn't run, because I promised him I never would.

"You don't have to understand," he smiled again. "It's just part of it, and you'll get there someday."

He hugged me tightly after that, me trying so desperately hard not to flinch away from his touch. There was blood on his face, and I saw it only after he pressed his lips to mine desperately.

"I love you, Freyja," he told me in a whisper. "I really love you."

"I love you too, Tate," I whispered back. Unsure and unsteady, the next words left my mouth without time for thought. "I miss you, but I still love you. _I love you._"

"Good," he murmured, kissing me once before pulling away a bit. Our bodies were still close together but I felt like he was a million miles away as he stared at me. The time between him reaching for the gun in the back of his jeans and pressing the barrel against my head had to have been a millisecond.

Because suddenly, Tate's left arm still around me, our bodies still pressed against each other, I felt the cold metal cylinder pressed against the lower back of my head. I froze, I couldn't speak or move or do _anything_, as he stared at me with tears in both our eyes.

I heard him whisper. "I'm so sorry, Freyja."

And then… _BANG. Fade to black. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Let Love In _- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - released April 1994

* * *

><p>AN: I read once that being shot in the back of the head is the quickest way to die involving firearms. I've always known Tate would kill Freyja, but I figured he might be at least a little sympathetic about it because – at the end of the day – I believe (and hope you do, too) that he truly loves her. This isn't the end, but that'll be here soon enough.

I hope it was alright. I love you all too much to think it was awful. _Please review if you read! _


	14. Loverman

**APRIL 1994**

But then, I woke up. It was confusing: one minute I was standing with Tate in the backyard and the next I was lying on the dingy basement floor. It made me uneasy to be there alone, scared even, but then I remember the bang, and I was… pissed, to say the least. Reaching a hand around to the back of my head, I realized while the wound was there, it had healed – as had the exit wound on my crown – and was hidden behind my matted locks of pink hair. _Pink hair_, I thought, _Never thought I'd have pink hair for the rest of eternity._ That was not going to be a cute choice thirty years in the future when everyone had flying cars and shit… so yeah, to sum it up, I was pissed.

I didn't have much time alone though because a few minutes later I heard a commotion occurring above me. Constance crying, doors slamming, boots clamping on the wooden floors, and finally intense _loud _gunshots all resonated down into the basement.

And suddenly I knew what was happening, and it gave me a sick sense of… joy, of completeness, because if Tate was dead, too, that meant we'd never have to be alone again.

But mostly I was still pissed.

Pissed because I had woken up alone down there, confused in the dark, head still ringing from the gunshot; and because I figured Tate could have given me some kind of "heads up, I'm going to kill a shit ton of people," like he owed me that much; and because, out of all those people, _he_ had shot _me_. And despite knowing how a crazy mind operates, it still kind of sucks when the love of your life unexpectedly lodges a bullet in your brain.

A decade or so after the fact, we'd rent _Kill Bill_ on Halloween night, and watch it alone in our room. Watching the Bride's journey in that film would be the only time I felt understood when it came to Tate. So much so that he would start calling me "Kiddo" like the film's lead because he was certain I'd be out to "Kill Tate" if the world hadn't gotten to him first.

I couldn't deny him that I would have gladly taken my revenge.

So when he suddenly appeared beside me – looking no less the same as he had the day we met – I didn't greet him with any sense of joy, no outpouring of overwhelming emotions. Instead, I leaned over and smacked him.

"_Asshole," _I scoffed before crossed my arms and glaring at him, watching as he rubbed the side of his face in confusion.

He stared at me in perplexity, and stared, and _stared_. Like I was someone he knew long ago and who he'd just passed on the street and couldn't _quite _give a name to. Until finally he came to realize who the angry girl beside him was.

"Freyja?" he whispered, seeming utterly lost. "Why are you here?"

"Yeah, no shit," I responded quickly. My hand raised with intentions to smack him again, but his own caught mine before impact. "You _shot _me, Tate."

"But you're not supposed to be _here_," he frantically spoke, now grabbing hold of both my hands as he moved to sit directly in front of me on the dingy floor. "I wanted you to be free, in the better place outside of here. I thought… When you die in the house, you can't leave. I've known that my whole life, but I thought… I thought if you died out there that you'd be free. I-I didn't want you to be trapped here, too."

"Didn't work out so well on that one, babe," I nearly laughed. It was so typical Tate to have his own good intentions, only to watch them all fall apart the instant he put them into motion.

"_Fuck," _he muttered. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"I know," I confirmed, squeezing his hands in comfort. "But I do want you to make me understand this whole thing, and I want you to be honest when you do."

"Well, we have a while, so I guess I can do that," he half-joked, funnily shaking his head.

I laughed a little at the way he seemed to already be returning to the Tate I once knew, but something was tugging at my heart as he leaned over to kiss me. He had _killed_ me – I was _dead_, and it was all because of him.

"We have forever, Tate," I intoned, pulling back to look him in the eyes. "Just you and me, right?"

"You and me," he confirmed. "Forever."

It was the first time he'd ever lie to me.

….

Tate explained everything to me and more, just like he promised. He told me that he'd seen ghosts in the house – that you were trapped there once you died, that there was some curse on the land or the property or something that kept you there for all eternity. He told me everything about the spirits that he knew: the couple who'd been killed there in the 20's, Nora and Charles; the sweet Harvey girls and Lorraine; Beau. He told me about that morning, all about how he was late to meet me because his "plan" was set in motion and how that plan involved lighting Larry Harvey up like a bonfire before moving on to the school. He was adamant that what he did was _good_, that it was _right_; he felt that he was freeing those he cared about by letting them leave the darkness of the world.

It was crazy, of course, and he sounded crazy talking about it all, but I trusted Tate, his ideas, and I knew that he would never do something so malicious without intent.

Even so, he refused to tell me who he'd killed at Westfield, a fact that worried me immensely for several years after my death but that I eventually came to terms with. Maybe they were in a better place, whoever the Hell they were.

Watching them take my body away in a black bag, shoved into the back of a truck, probably should've been a more traumatic experience than it was. But somehow… knowing that body had only been a physical shell, that I was moving on just fine without it, the whole process wasn't so bad.

C.S. Lewis had been right all along. I wasn't a body; I was just a soul stuck inside of one.

It had been nearly crushing to see them zipping up Tate's body though. Of course, I knew he was fine too, hardly any worse for wear after receiving over twenty bullets to his chest. Just the fact that I'd seen his face more than I'd seen my own while we _were_ alive made seeing the end of him – or at least the end of his _living, breathing_ self – all the more difficult.

"You're kind of lucky, you know?"

I jumped at the sound of a female voice emanating from the staircase behind me. Swiftly turning, I noticed it was a young girl – not much older than Tate or me – wearing a nurses' uniform. She was willowy with long brown hair and a bright smile despite the blood splattered across her white smock. I couldn't help the thought that she looked like someone dressed up for Halloween – just another high school student on her way to the dance or something, but, within moments, I realized she wasn't. It was apparent that she was just another one of the ghosts that had apparently been watching my every move since I first stepped into the house.

"Uh," I muttered out in response. _Ever the best at meeting new people._ "Lucky for what?"

"That boy," she half-laughed in exasperation. "He went about it in a very strange way, and I don't approve of certain… aspects in your relationship, but still. Only God can judge, right? Not my place. He tells everyone about you."

"Yeah, he… talks a lot," I responded, shrugging at both having nothing to say and oh-so-eloquently expressing that I had nothing to say. Tate didn't really talk much at all, so to hear he was saying anything about me was a bit of a revelation. "I'm Freyja, by the way."

The girl smiled widely again, extending her hand to shake mine as she descended the steps. "I'm Maria."

An awkward silence settled over us as she joined me in staring out the window, watching as the black-suited men drove away with my body stored neatly behind them. I could've cried; I _wanted _to cry, but for some reason, the idea of once being that person just refused to touch me.

"Aren't you sad?" Maria questioned once the van was out of sight. I could see her imploring gaze from the corner of my eye. "I was, when I died. I was murdered, too, y'know? But it wasn't by someone I loved. I was devastated when I woke up in the house again – no Heaven, no God, nothing. I had been so sure when I was alive."

"I didn't have so much of a life outside of Tate and this house anyway," I sighed, turning to her with what I hoped was a look of finality. "And I never really believed in God either, so there wasn't much to lose on that front."

"Well," she smiled that big smile again, reaching over to take my hand. "I hope that you enjoy this season of life more than you did your last. It's not horrible every day."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Let Love In - _Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - released April 1994

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I sort of hate this chapter in the same way I sort of hate every chapter I've ever written, but I figured it'd been a while since I posted, especially after such a tense moment. Hopefully it's decent.

I don't know exactly what happens when you die in the House, and I imagine the writers are the only people who do know that fully; but I've always felt the basement was the spot you came back to. And I quite like the idea of Freyja having a friend [u]other[/u] than Tate in the afterlife.

To those who have reviewed - Thank you, you wonderful beings; I'll be getting back to everyone in a day or so. To those who haven't reviewed - _Please don't be silent readers. All feedback is good to me!_


	15. Passenger

**AUTUMN 1998***

The biggest difference between life and death is the attitude.

When you're alive, you try not to think of the alternative. And when you finally do, when you picture that lifeless corpse rotting beneath the dirt or imagine what your soul's fate will be, most people aren't too keen to get there.

But dead people? All we ever think about is life.

I am especially guilty of this.

The touch of wind blowing through my bubblegum hair as my dad first drove us down the Pacific Coast Highway, the taste of iced cream melting on my tongue some hot summer day, the way it felt when my mother hugged me before leaving for a trip.

Things I never even really noticed were the things I longed for during my time in Murder House.

And while there were few moments when I was truly alone, even when I was wrapped in Tate's arms or looking up at the stars beside Maria in the backyard, I was always lonely.

I missed people. Living, breathing, heart-pumping-inside-their-chest, _real_ people.

It killed me all over again to think that all the people I cared about were gone from my life forever, and would be gone from _all_ life soon enough. They'd be dead soon, just like I was.

But even dead, I'd never see them again. So far as I was concerned, my parents were gone.

The realization of that hit me heavily on Halloween night not long after my death.

After three years in Murder House, I had finally gained the courage to go home that year – to at least look in on the lives I was sure had gone on without me.

Except it wasn't my parent's life I was seeing.

The people in our home were strangers – a dark haired family of five, all perfect coiffed with their outfits pressed.

My parents had moved on, and I would never see them again. Dead or alive.

* * *

><p>In some ways, I think the "official" loss of my family made me begin to resent Tate a little bit.<p>

His father was stuck with him for all eternity in this house – a fact we'd uncovered the year we died, his mother was trying her damnedest to get back in, and Addie didn't know better either way. They were all still around, but he wanted nothing to do with them.

Overall, though, as the years dragged on, I was finally beginning to reconsider the value of my relationship with Tate.

We got into fights almost every day.

He had gone strange again – acting in bizarre and unexplainable ways, engaging other spirits in little vindictive battles.

Some days I would get so angry with him that I'd want to kill him, and I'd start to plot out the perfect way of going about his murder, only to realize he'd already taken care of that.

We held such anger and jealousy toward the other spirits. He became accusatory, always thinking that I was trying to whore myself out to whoever was convenient – his father, mostly; and occasionally Dr. Montgomery, the resident quack.

Despite our arguments, however, everyone in the house seemed to respect our privacy. When we wanted them gone, they were gone; when we needed a mediator, there was one of them ready to help. Our fights always ending with us making up anyway, and that was usually in a physical way.

And on a chilly autumn day in '98, that was exactly where we found ourselves.

We were in his old bedroom, shouting at each other so loudly it was surprising that the doors didn't shake. The Nirvana posters and adolescent scribbles that once adorned the room were long gone, lending it the feeling of an utterly desolate wasteland.

Our argument of the day was over why I hadn't spent the previous night with him, where I had been while I was gone.

In reality, I'd been sitting in the basement, talking to Maria and Gladys about what life was like for them as children of the 60's. But Tate was certain I'd been off flirting the night away, "trying to get Doctor Montgomery to examine me" or so he screamed.

Initially, I listened quietly while he ranted and raved for several minutes, waiting for him to finish his madness. But that day, for whatever reason, my subconscious decided enough was enough, and I cut him off with a quiet sentence that seemed to shift the earth.

"I regret ever being with you," I muttered, looking down at my pale hands, bright hair falling into my eyes and reminding me that maybe – _just maybe_ – I meant it.

But he didn't give me even a moment to reconsider, and before I knew it, he had me pinned against the wall; his strong hands gripping my shoulders with such intensity that I gasped in shock. He was strong – even more so now than when we were alive – and, though I knew Tate would never intentionally hurt me, he certainly scared me enough.

"No, you don't," he pressed, causing my apprehension to ease as he stared at me with the same look he'd had the day he shot me. It was a look of pleading desperation, and I hadn't seen it since that day three-years-prior. "You don't regret it, Frey."

"Yes, I do," I smirked as I met his gaze. It was clear – to me anyway – that he knew my lie, and that our argument was over, which I suddenly, desperately wanted it to be.

"You didn't fucking mean it," he insisted, pressing his body hard to mine. I could already feel his arousal against my upper thigh, just as I felt my own soaking against my underwear.

"I meant it," I whispered back, directly into his ear before biting down on it lightly.

And then, swear to the much-argued-over God, Tate Langdon growled at me. He_growled_, like a wild animal just being released from his cage and about to consume a delicious snack. I shivered against him as the sound reverberated through the room.

In a near-instant, his hands were unbuttoning both our jeans – he'd barely pushed mine below my knees, along with my panties, before I felt him enter me. I moaned in shock at the feeling of his hard length stretching me all over again, clawing at his flannel-clad shoulders as I kicked my denim off completely and wrapped my legs around him.

He groaned at my movement, pulling my shirt over my head swiftly before discarding of his own, and immediately brought his hot mouth to my neck. And I guess the benefit of being dead is that no matter how hard he tried to, he could never mark me with a loving bruise again.

His movement was hard and fast inside me, causing me to cry out each time my back lightly hit the bare wall behind me.

"_You. Didn't. Mean. It_," he groaned, thrusting hard into me with each syllable.

I gasped – this time in pleasure as his motions continued. I attempted to respond verbally, but was muffled by my own moan, which truly and eternally screwed my insistent head shake that I had meant it. Tate grinned at what he realized was my near-submission, and I felt myself growing ever closer to the edge as his driving hit an all-time high, his length hitting my rough patch each time. I shut my eyes to avoid his gaze, and then – all too quickly – it was gone.

My eyes snapped open to glare at this blonde adonis, seeing nothing but the incredibly arrogant smirk he'd been wearing all too often those days.

"Tell me you didn't mean it, Frey," he whispered. I could feel his hardness still pressing against my core, taunting, and I knew that I was a goner. "Tell me you didn't mean it _right now_, or that's it. I'm sure one of the other beautiful ladies in this house would just love to finish me off."

I internally groaned, halfway more attracted to him for being such a horrible ass about the entire situation and more than halfway angry that he'd gotten his way. Again.

"I didn't mean it," I muttered as I refused to meet his gaze and instead focused on a dirtied patch of ceiling above him.

"Excuse me?" he demanded, pulling gently on my chin to force my eyes toward him.

"I didn't mean it," I half-shouted then – my hands immediately returned to grasping his shoulders as he returned himself to me with a groan.

His thrusts were even quicker now, more succinct as he tried to get us both where we needed to be at approximately the same time. He forced two of his fingers into my mouth and I moaned loudly when he moved them to rub against my clit.

"C'mon, Frey," he groaned loudly. "Let me see that you didn't mean it."

He thrust into me twice more, his calloused hand moving between us, before I came undone around him. I wailed loudly as he continued to drive upwards, all the while as my sex tightened and untightened around him, before he finally released inside of me with a huff.

I nearly slammed my head back against the wall that supported us as I felt his warmth filling me to the brim, his beautiful face contorting in pleasure and love and utter happiness. In those moments, those quiet moments, he was the Tate I fell in love with.

"Frey," he sighed as he rested his forehead against my collarbone, his cock still resting inside of me as his breath hit my chest heavily. "I fucking love you… God, I'm… I'm so sorry. I love you."

I couldn't help but smile lightly as I stroked his dirtied hair. _My beautiful boy._

"I love you, too, Tate," I stated simply.

And it was true. No matter how much we fought – no matter how much he changed – I loved him. I would always love him.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Internationalist_ - Powderfinger - released September 1998

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story<em> belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

* * *

><p>AN: Um. Shit. I've been gone a long time - the longest time I've ever been gone, probably.

I'm back in university and busy with work, and inspiration hasn't hit me in a long while, and I am _so sorry._ Sometimes I genuinely wish I could give you lot a better person as a consistent updater, but I'm afraid we're stuck together. :)

Love you all. Your comments make my day/week/month/year/life. I hope this was alright. xo


	16. Born Alone

**SEPTEMBER 2011**

Tate and I spent most of our following years comfortably, our bond tightening as we fought to keep strangers – and Constance – out of the house. But, as the House seemed to gain notoriety, and we lost much of our entertainment torturing new tenants, tension grew.

We still didn't _fight_ exactly, not screaming like we had in the early years. Now, Tate and I just distanced ourselves, and in some ways that was far worse.

By the time 2011 rolled around, we were barely speaking.

I spent most of my time lying in the backyard with Maria, listening to her talk about God and the afterlife and keeping faith. It was nice to have a friend around when Tate would refuse to meet my eyes. And looking up at those stars reminded me of being alive, like somehow if life was all around me then I'd suddenly wake up my pulse. It never happened, of course, so – realizing we had to either just be _together _or be _separate_ – Tate and I made plans to have a serious talk in late September, but that was the month that changed everything.

Because in September of 2011, the Harmon family moved into our house.

The Harmons were originally from Boston. Ben Harmon had cheated on his wife, Vivian, that past winter; he'd blamed his infidelity on Vivian's recent miscarriage, while everyone else just blamed it on him. They were a pretty fucked up couple, though I had to respect them for at least _trying _to get along.

I wasn't sure how long their new attempt at trust would last, however, since Moira was already trying to sink her claws into Ben. His susceptible nature made it seem like an easy way to get them out of the house, and we had a nice laugh at his lust for the maid, but the only person he seemed ready to act on his feelings with was the same one he'd slept with in the first place. Her name was Hayden, and she was still in Chicago, though she called Ben all the time.

And the Harmons had a daughter, who I figured to be a year or two younger than Tate and I – and it seemed she was the unhappiest about her family's recent troubles. The look on her face when she spoke to her parents was one of pure disdain, a look I could vaguely remember from when I'd been alive. I had a problem with her ungrateful attitude, but I figured being dead had made me appreciate the family I used to have.

Tate, however, found her interesting.

Or really, he found the _whole_ family interesting.

He told me that he wanted them to help us, that Constance had devised a plan to get rid of the house for good and free our souls or some bullshit. It sounded far-fetched, to say the least; but they went forward with it.

Tate made up some story about needing therapy so that he could spend more time around the Harmons, and – even though _Doctor _Harmon had strictly forbade it – I continually found him with Violet.

They talked about their sadness, their internal feeling of being profoundly outside of the normal. They compared cuts they'd made across their arms. They listened to music as Violet explained all of her weird technologies – a laptop and iTunes and cell phones that were available to everyone.

It was interesting to have such life in the house again, but I dreaded the planned meeting Tate and I had set. I knew that Violet had changed everything; I knew where the discussion would be headed. I knew that I would soon be once again forced to head off on a road I didn't want to walk on, but would be forced to travel.

But, this time, I was determined to fight.

On the last weekend of the month, Tate and I met out in the backyard, not ten feet from where he'd shot me in 1994. With autumn falling, the weather was getting a little colder at night, but the stars were clearest during those times – the wind blowing away the smog as it passed over the city.

Tate was picking at the grass with his permanently-roughened hands, barely glancing at me as he finally spoke.

"I met someone," he muttered so quietly that the sound barely made it to my ears.

"I know," I whispered back, placing my hand atop his so that he stopped attacking the already-dried grass. He spared a sideways glance at me before quickly looking away again. "That girl, Violet."

His only response was a nod, slow and steady as he turned to gaze upward at the vast expanse of universe hanging above Los Angeles. He didn't move to hold my hand in return, but he didn't pull away either. Neither act lent me any hope.

"You like her," I stated simply. This time I didn't expect a response, but Tate was always in the mood for surprising me.

"She's kind of cool, Freyja," he sighed with the smallest of smiles as he _finally _looked me in the eye, peering over to gauge my reaction. The look on his face was one I hadn't seen in a long time, though I couldn't quite place it. "She's really beautiful, too."

My jaw nearly dropped at his easy confession.

I knew he thought that of her, knew that he found beauty in sadness, knew he was always searching for someone with the same darkness as him. I had never had enough darkness. I had bubblegum hair and Beatles records with my cigarettes and Nirvana t-shirt. My darkness existed, I knew; I held it deep inside of my heart, and felt it every time he looked away from me. It was no match for his onyx night mind, and I hardly felt Violet's teenage melodrama was, but still…

This was Tate, _my _Tate, _my _high school sweetheart who had sealed our fate permanently together because he didn't want to lose me to the same darkness that had grabbed hold of him. And now he was talking about another girl. A living girl, a _fifteen year old _living girl whose family had invaded _our_ house.

My thoughts consumed me so deeply that I hardly realized he had continued talking, though it didn't seem to deter him.

"She goes to Westfield," he was saying.

_My beautiful Tate_, I was thinking.

"We scared this bitch so bad, I wish you had seen it."

_All these years stuck here, forever stuck here and he doesn't even care. _

"I love you, Freyja, only you. But there's something about her, and I can't just –"

He was shrugging intermittently the whole speech, his thin shoulders flexing under his old threadbare striped sweater. I'd bought him that for Christmas in 1993, way back when I didn't know _what _to buy him, and he still wore it every day.

Telling me about another girl and how wonderful she was, and all I could think was: _I hate her_.

_I hate her. I hate her. She did this. I hate her._

"I think you two could be really good friends."

"No."

Then he stopped talking and stared again. I wanted to cry then.

I hadn't cried in such a long time, and this felt far sadder than even dying, but I couldn't free the tears… I _wouldn't _free them.

I wanted to smack Tate, wanted to kill him twice over, wanted to tell him to go away forever. I wanted to scream at him, wanted him to scream back. I wanted to ask him not to leave. But I refused all emotion. I didn't want _weakness; _I wanted to be_ strong _like Tate always knew I was. It was just a little difficult to process when the love of my short life was singing all the praises of another girl.

"You want to be with her," I confirmed finally, pulling my arms against my body, removing myself fully from his touch. I knew that was what he was trying to say. Of course he wanted to be with Violet – the sad, living girl who sliced her wrists open. Tate Langdon did not just _befriend _pretty teenagers.

He nodded again, his eyes gone from mine again.

"So this is how it ends, then?" I half-laughed, trying to control my emotions before I completely ruined things. "You and I have spent almost twenty years in this house together, and now you're done with me?"

"Freyja," he sighed. By now, I was standing to go inside, turning away from him for good. For half a second, I thought that maybe he would say it was all an elaborate joke, or that Constance was forcing this as part of her plan, but it was a senseless hope. "You better leave her alone. Tell the others, too. I'm serious."

I stopped walking away, but refused to turn around.

"Good luck with that, Tate," I stated with as little emotion as I could muster. "Really can't wait for her to meet the family."

Because if Constance wasn't in on the relationship already, she certainly would be in time.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _The Whole Love _- Wilco - released September 2011

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters. All content associated with <em>American Horror Story <em>belongs to FX, Ryan Murphy, and Brad Falchuk.

* * *

><p>AN: **A few points to address: **1) I KNOW THIS ESCALATED QUICKLY. Please remain calm. I've (probably/maybe/hopefully) got this under control.  
>2) I'm not 100% sure <em>when<em> the "current day" of the show is set, but sources seem to agree on 2011, so that's what I've gone with.  
>3) The show is also unclear - so far as I'm aware - on how old Violet is when this all happens. A lot of people say she's 1617;but I always got the sense that Violet had a certain naïvety about her, which just read younger to me... So I wrote her as younger. I'm pretty happy with the choice, but what do ya'll think?  
>4) PLEASE go read my newest blog post, which contains important information regarding this story!<p>

As always: I love you each and every. Thank you for reading this nonsense, especially if you've gotten this far.


	17. Ready, Aim, Fire!

**EARLY OCTOBER 2011**

"Hello, Violet."

It had been just about a month since the Harmons had taken over murder house, since Violet moved into what had been Tate and my bedroom during our years together, since Tate had left me for nothing. And I had watched again, as Ben committed his offenses of infidelity and Larry bashed in the mistress' brains on the front lawn and Vivian grew mad with fresh pregnancy.

The only truly exciting moment had come with that crazed group of murder fanatics. Watching Maria and Gladys take even a small bit of revenge made me feel more satisfied than I had in years. And knowing that Vivian wanted to get out of the Murder House brought utter joy.

I tried to behave. Like, really, _truly _tried; but the irony of no longer being with Tate was that my own dark spirit was growing every day.

Every single moment he spent with Violet, the more I felt comfort in my anger.

And, as she put away freshly laundered clothes, I decided it was time to finally introduce myself.

_"Hello, Violet." _

She swiftly dropped the clothing from her hands, jumping several centimeters in the air before inhaling deeply and turning around to face me. The look she sent me showed she was trying not to be afraid, but I also knew she really had nothing to worry about… at least not yet.

I wanted to scare her, certainly, but if I could keep her away from Tate without physically harming her, I figured it'd be best. Years in the Murder House taught us all to fly under the radar if we wanted to continue having a home. Because, after all our attempts to get out, no one knew what happened _after _our decided after life, and that was an even more terrifying idea than spending forever there.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asked evenly, acting like a brave little soldier girl.

I simply smiled in return; there'd been a time when I tried to have courage, too. Maybe she was braver than I'd been. Maybe she'd make it out alive.

"I'm Moira's niece," I lied easily. "She forgot something when she left earlier, asked me to come pick it up. She talks about your family constantly as she spends so much time with you guys now, so she told me to say hi if I ran into you."

"Nice to meet you," she smiled back. It wasn't genuine. "Do you go to Westfield? I think I'd remember someone with cool hair like that. Is that a family thing?"

"Oh, no," I grinned in return. It was nice to hear my hair was cool again. Almost two decades later, and Freyja Bristow's pink locks were in style once more. Tate was right. "I graduated last year. I'm taking some time off before college, getting a late start, y'know?"

"So do you know Tate?" she questioned instantly. For all her flattery, Violet Harmon was a little rude; she never even asked my name. "I think he graduated last year, too."

That time I laughed. Maybe it _was _kind of nice spending time with her; her naivety was more thrilling than the scientific calculation and homoerotic dramas of the old tenants. They'd all been so frightened that they ran out half-crying within the year. The Harmons were determined to make the best of things, and Violet was utterly convinced that the house couldn't hurt her. As much as I wanted them gone, as much as I wanted to tear Violet's stupid blonde hair out of her depressed teenaged head, I couldn't deny it would be nice to watch them die.

"Oh yeah, I went to school with Tate," I chucked. "He and I had some of the same friends. He's kind of a dick."

Violet balked.

"He seems kind of nice," she muttered, suspiciously eyeing my every movement around her room.

"I thought so, too," I responded with no hesitation. I wasn't sure where the words were coming from, where the lie had formed in my mind, but suddenly an elaborate story had formed in my mind and I ran with it. "Tate was really smart, y'know? He seemed like he was so brilliant, but he was fucked up. Did some truly disturbing shit to the other girls at school, pervy pictures that he showed everyone, stuff like that. But everyone was so afraid of him that nobody reported him, so I guess he got away with it."

By now, Violet was looking at me in total shock. I wasn't sure if she was believing my words or not, but even the implant of the idea was worth it.

"Oh, you don't know him, do you?" I asked in mock-horror. She nodded. "Shit, I am _so _sorry."

"I don't think Tate would do that though," she countered, though her eyes revealed the reconsideration that was streaming through her mind.

"Yeah, well," I sighed. "I'd stay away from him anyway; just something to consider."

And I could tell she thought it _was _something to consider, which was enough for me. Our conversation was brief enough to leave an impact, but any longer might have her asking Tate about it.

Before she could speak again, I was walking out the door.

Maria was waiting in the hallway, clearly invisible to the less-dead citizens of the house, and the smile she sent my way was one of near pride as I grabbed her hand and ran back down to the basement.

* * *

><p><strong>OCTOBER, PART 2: NEW MAP<strong>

"What did you say to Violet?"

Those were the first words Tate spoke to me in a month. I had been in the basement, playing tea party with the Harvey girls, when he appeared like a bat out of hell.

"Really?" I laughed. "No 'honey, I'm home?'"

He wasn't as amused by the joke, to say the least; and the anger radiating from him was enough for my two companions to make themselves scarce.

I stood up to meet Tate with a sigh and raised eyebrow.

"She said Moira's niece knew me from high school," he explained even though I knew exactly what he was referring to the minute he'd stormed in. "I told you not to fuck with her."

"And what exactly are you going to do now that I have? "I smirked, taking advantage of the opportunity to test him. It was always so easy to get him riled up. "Are you going to _punish _me, Tate?"

My question was met with a glare, but I just bit my lip and shrugged. For once in the entire history of our relationship, Tate had nothing on me, _nothing_, and I knew secrets that could ruin his entire fake life.

"I'm not doing that anymore," he stated quickly, though not all too convincingly.

"Oh, I know," I nodded.

And weirdly enough, I _did _know. The fact that Violet was a virgin had become disturbingly well known in the house. Troy and Brian wouldn't shut up about the idea that it would've been her interesting fact if the Harmon family had been on baseball cards, and we all laughed every time even though the boys themselves were still… _boys. _

"Leave her alone, Freyja," he insisted again. "Violet is special to me."

"And what exactly is the game plan here, Tate?" I asked after a moment. "You're _dead_. And she's very much alive. She's not going to be with you forever."

"You don't know her," he muttered, but I knew I'd hit a nerve. "She wouldn't leave me here like that."

"_Yes, _she is," I insisted. "She'll graduate high school and leave all of this behind her. Do you really think Doctor Harmon won't pressure her into a four-year college? Because he has the brochures in his office already, and not many of those schools are in the greater Los Angeles area. Violet _hates _it here anyway, too much sunshine for little miss porcelain doll. So she'll go out of state for school, and then _move on with her goddamn life_. Eventually she'll meet another guy who's into whatever freaky shit she's selling, and she's going to forget about that weird dead kid who she kind of dated. Violet's not going to think about you, Tate. Not when she's walking down the aisle to some nice but ultimately average future, not when she's going into labor for the first time, and not even when she's laying down the die. She won't come back then; she'll die for good, and you will still be here."

"She wouldn't do that!" Tate shouted now. His angry tone wasn't one I missed so much when he was too preoccupied to even speak with me, and the tears streaking down his face were ones I knew that I'd created. "_You _don't know her. I know she's going to leave someday, but she's not going to do it like that. She's not just going to forget."

"Sure," I agreed. After my outburst fell on deaf ears, I was suddenly feeling very bored of the entire situation. "Maybe she'll stick around and live forever, who knows? But I'm not responsible for what happens to her in this house, _you _know that."

Tate only nodded in response, staring down at the dusty floor. I felt sick, worse than I'd felt in forever.

"You don't get to have two soul mates, Tate," I practically choked out. "Not when most people can barely handle one."

It was quiet after that, and Tate was unwavering in his downward gaze. He was a stone, but I still heard the quiver in his voice when he finally spoke.

"Go away."

The words I had always feared, spoken by the very person who'd taught me to say them.

In a matter of seconds, Tate had sent me to my own personal hell, a fate that he knew I considered worse than death.

Because when you were sent away in the Murder House, nothing really happened.

Your eyes closed and it felt like dying all over again, but then you woke up right back in the basement. The real punishment was that, when someone had spoken those words to you, you couldn't be in any contact with them until they called you back.

So I could hear Tate laughing in the kitchen, but I could never cross into the tiled room. It wasn't magic or a force field or anything, it just… _was_. If I fought, I'd just end up right back in the basement again.

And Tate couldn't see me, which was the nightmare scenario. I could peer at him from another room, looking into windows or cracked doors, but he would never catch a glimpse of me.

To Tate, I no longer existed.

* * *

><p>He only enforced the rule for about a week before he let me wander freely again, and he never explained why he ended the ban.<p>

We still didn't talk, but it was nice to be in the same room again. And a small, 17-year-old part of me hoped that maybe he thought so too.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Radiosurgery _- New Found Glory - released 4 October 2011 / _Hurry Up, We're Dreaming _- M83 - released 18 October 2011

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><p>AN: I understand this chapter may seem a little weird... rushed maybe. I didn't want to dwell too long on the idea of being "gone away" because the concept isn't all that interesting to me, but I wanted to touch upon it anyway; and I think it's interesting in the development of Tate and Freyja's relationship right now. This chapter was originally separate as two, but I have something coming for ya'll later tonight, in honour of Halloween, and I wanted to get to it as quickly as possible. Be on the lookout! :)

The responses I've gotten recently have been so incredibly wonderful; there aren't enough words in any human language to express my gratitude, and I'll be replying individually soon. THANK YOU FOR BEING AMAZING. xoxo


	18. Anthem For The Unwanted

**HALLOWEEN 2011**

The first Halloween spent with the Harmon family was an eventful one, to say the least.

Chad and Patrick came on full force the night before, making up some story about being there to help the Harmons get the house ready to sell. Of course, Tate scared them off before Vivian and Ben realized the truth.

Halloween night, Addie died. I watched from the front window as some asshole hit her with his car and sped off, as Constance cried and screamed and tried everything in her power to save her daughter. I watched her die, and I knew there was no coming back for her. It was the first thing that made me cry in years, losing sweet Addie.

Tate wasn't there to see it happen. Even though I had no idea where he'd wandered off to, I was glad for once to have him gone.

He re-appeared halfway through the night to take Violet out on their "real date."

It was strange for me to think that Violet had never known any of us outside the Murder House. We were always just there. Every moment she spent with Tate was in that house; they'd been together for just under a month, but she'd never seen him anywhere else but the house, and it made me quite happy to think of.

Tate and I had spent whole years together off the property. We had been to school and the beach and the Walk of Fame and even to San Diego once for a very brief, disastrous trip. We had memories and faded pictures in a hundred different places. Just Tate and I, smiling with our arms around each other.

Violet would never get to share that with him, even if they went out every Halloween for a century. It was nice to know life outside Murder House, even if it was over, would always be for just us two.

* * *

><p>Everyone was out that night, even Nora – who usually spent every Halloween huddled in fear down in the basement.<p>

By the time Ben Harmon was attacking good ole Larry with a shovel and Hayden was making her valiant return from death, I was completely over the entire scene. So I left.

I turned out onto the street for the first time in many years, and just started walking.

Unsurprisingly, my feet took me as far as they could – to the nearest bus stop and then onto the beach.

There was a small fire burning near the shoreline, and I was kind of shocked not to see Tate sitting there half-naked with Violet, but I still didn't go near the ashes.

I sat in the cold sand alone, staring out at the vast expanse of water in front of me. When Tate and I were together, when we were alive, we used to spend hours staring out at the ocean. It helped us remember to ground ourselves, to let go of the stupid insignificant bullshit. Now, it only made me feel sad.

Instead of wallowing in the depression, I laid back to stare at the stars, trying to pinpoint constellations my dad had taught me. I missed my parents most on Halloween, maybe because I'd never gotten a chance to visit or whatever, but… I missed them. And laying there on that beach, I had never felt so alone.

Had I still held a pulse, I think I would have fallen asleep just then. Woken up when the tide came in and nearly froze me, walked home freezing and curled up in my tiny bed, convinced my mom to call me in sick from school. It really was a pity that would never happen again.

A fair amount of time passed, hours possibly, before my peace was cut short by the sound of arguing.

I don't know how their voices reached me, but somehow I heard them. Looking up at the source, I saw six dark figures, one of whom held a familiar halo of blonde hair. _Tate_.

And I genuinely prayed that I wouldn't recognize the other figures as I approached.

Unfortunately God never seemed to make much of a priority of prayers because I knew every single bloodied face that surrounded Tate.

Kyle's blue Varsity jacket, Chloe still in her cheerleading uniform, Stephanie with half her skull missing, Amir without a lower jaw…. Kevin, looking almost the same as he had when we first met.

Our classmates. Our _friends_.

And suddenly, I just knew.

I knew what Tate had done.

I knew why he'd never told me everything about that day; the day he showed up late, the day he killed me, the day he basically killed himself.

It made sense, all his hesitation to speak about it, because he knew it was unforgiveable.

Two decades worth of lies made sense in that one moment.

I was frozen there, staring at them from the sand, but as soon as I heard Tate's screams, the betrayal meant nothing.

This was still Tate, sad and confused and lonely and weird and beautiful Tate. Sick and demented Tate, yes, but I wasn't about to let someone hurt him.

I ran over to the small group, trying to get to Tate, but was quickly stopped by another body. I knew who it was before I looked: the only person in the group who had ever touched me. Kevin.

He was stronger than me by far, and I was helpless as he kept me from the scene. Stephanie scoffed at me. Tate glanced over once before returning his attention to Chloe, like he didn't even see me there.

"Please just say it, just say what you did," she pleaded. "I should be 34 years old, and married, with babies…"

Tate knew what he'd done. They all knew it. And now I did too.

But he was unyielding.

"I don't know you," he interrupted when she paused. He was crying, _really _crying. And even I was beginning to doubt the validity of it all. "I'm sorry. I don't know you…"

Stephanie put an end to it, grabbing hold of Chloe's arm and pulling her away. Kyle and Amir followed.

Kevin released me, and I turned to him quickly, needing to explain that I had no idea, that I would never have stayed, that I was _so very sorry_. But he spoke before I could.

"Your boyfriend sucks, Freyja," he muttered, lightly pushing me toward where Tate sat still crying.

I turned just in time to see him raise his middle finger at Tate before walking off completely.

In all the time I'd had with Tate – both before and after life – I never thought I'd be truly unhappy to be near him. But as I sat beside him, tears rolling down his face, I was well and truly unhappy.

It was supposed to just be another Halloween.

"I never meant to fuck it up so badly, Frey," he choked out. "I love you so much, and now all this shit… I just really fucked up."

"My best friend is dead because of you, and you've lied to me about it for seventeen years," I muttered.

He looked at me then, in some kind of desperation, running a hand over his head. His hair was darker than it had been when we were younger, and I couldn't stop thinking that we'd never get to grow old together, never get to be two ancient grandparents reminiscing about our silly teenage romance.

Kevin would never write the great American Novel, Amir would never have his photography display at the Met or his name on a presidential desk, Chloe would never be 34 and married with babies. He had fucked _everything _up.

"You know I didn't do it to hurt you," Tate pleaded now, fully facing me and trying to take hold of my hands. He flinched when I pulled them away.

"If you weren't fucked up, you wouldn't be you," I replied quietly, no longer meeting his tear-filled eyes. "I have always loved you, and – for whatever reason – the universe hates me enough to not let me stop loving you. But you've ignored me for weeks, and I think maybe it's time I ignore you for a while."

"Freyja, please," he nearly sobbed as I stood and walked away.

I don't know what he was searching for: a friend or a lover or just a shoulder to cry on, but I couldn't be that for him just then. I had resolved to be _strong_ and I wasn't going to break.

And instead of turning back, I left.

Right back to the house I'd died at, where I was cursed to spend every second of my existence.

I never saw Kevin or the other Westfield kids again.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title:<strong> _Radiosurgery_ - New Found Glory - released 4 October 2011

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><p>AN: I posted a holiday-esque chapter on the actual holiday, and this might be my greatest writing achievement ever. It occurs to me that some of you might be from places other than the United States (if so - holy shit, WHAT'S UP), but I hope you can enjoy it anyway. I actually liked this chapter; this whole _reveal_ of what Tate really did felt like it was needed. And I always thought the "Tate doesn't know he's a ghost who murdered all these people" to be COMPLETE NONSENSE, but the beach scene still confused the Hell out of me, and I wanted to _try_. Hopefully, ya'll enjoyed.

Wishing the happiest Halloweens to all. xoxo


	19. Seven Devils

**NOVEMBER 2011**

In the weeks following Halloween, life in Murder House changed.

Ben was no longer allowed in the house, and Vivian was finally standing up for herself. It was kind of badass to see her law down the law, but I was doubtful of how long it would last.

And with the ever-faithful help of Constance and some computer program, Violet found out that Tate was a dead mass murdering teenager, and ended up flying off the handle in the worst possible way.

Sure, it wasn't exactly without interference from us spirits, but we hadn't expected her to do what she did.

When Troy and Brian approached me with the idea to scare her, they had only wanted to do just that: _scare_ her. Get her to finally be afraid of Murder House and encourage her family to get the Hell out. Finding out Tate was helping them plan didn't deter me either; I didn't know why he'd want his precious girlfriend to leave, but the issue of getting her out was far more important. Maybe if the Harmons left for good, we could eventually move past our issues.

And it was fun to watch their miniature attack unfold. The look on her face when she saw everyone in the basement was priceless.

She nearly jumped a foot in the air when she saw me waiting for her at the top of the steps.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled, her eyebrows raising halfway to her hair.

I laughed aloud. It was so mean, and I knew it was mean, but I really fucking hated her. And that moment, when she was so scared, I knew Tate would've hated her too.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to," I chastised as she backed away from me. "That's what he said to you, right? The first day you meant?"

"Get out of my house," she shouted for what seemed like the hundredth time in five minutes. It struck me momentarily how young she was, little Violet trying to be all intimidating; in another moment, I might have found it sad.

"Doesn't the name Freyja Bristow ring any bells?" I questioned in mock horror. "I was pretty important to Tate before you showed up."

A look of recognition crossed her face when I stated my name. I knew she must have seen it during her little research project on the Westfield shootings, maybe connected that I wasn't really Moira's niece either. Constance was always talking about how the papers considered my death a tragedy, some bullshit about star-crossed lovers or teen romance gone wrong.

"Did Tate tell you about us?" I continued when she didn't answer. "Didn't he tell you about how he shot me in the head and killed me right in that backyard, how Moira had to clean up my blood from the concrete?"

"GET OUT," she screamed again.

I laughed at her again. From the first moment we met, it seemed, I was destined to spend my afterlife laughing at her. She had seemed so strong at first, so bold and honest and like she was going to make it. But she was really just a spoiled child, a little girl whose parents were too busy mourning their unborn baby and trying to save their marriage to pay attention.

And I did what she wanted. I left her alone.

We all sort of assumed she would leave, but unfortunately – without really considering the fact that Murder House was clearly haunted, that none of us wanted her around – she killed herself.

Popped a whole bunch of pills and went down like a ton of bricks.

"Violet's turning Violet, Tate," I shouted at him, rolling my eyes as I made myself invisible and let Tate pretend he was the hero.

It was kind of sickening to watch him try and save her, like he was some knight in shining armor. It was even more sickening to see him fail, to see him fawn over her like she was porcelain. There were no words to use as I observed him dragging her body down to the basement and then pretending like nothing had happened, easily convincing her that she'd been saved.

Then he was crying over her. My perfect Tate, marring his beauty with tears for this little girl. Saying he loved her.

If I wasn't already dead… _that_ would have done it. Because hearing him say those words about someone else felt almost as bad as having a bullet pierce my brain. And when he told her that he'd never felt that way about anyone before, it felt even worse.

I couldn't even process the fact that their discussion had ended because I was already in a whirlwind. I could only stare as they lay together on Violet's bed, her arms wrapped tightly around Tate's wrecked body. In that moment, all I wanted in the whole expanse of human existence was to be the one holding him again.

"I'm tired," he whispered, staring right at me as if he knew I was still there. Hell, maybe he _did _know it; he was always pretty intuitive when we were alive. He claimed to know when I was or wasn't in school just based on how the air felt, but that all seemed like bullshit now and it felt like the air was decompressing around me if I even thought about those times.

That was what finally did it though – that one anti-look was what made my tears start flowing, choking out in waves and forcing me to leave before I let myself be seen. We were all trapped there together now, and Tate might never love me again, and it was impossible to blame on anyone.

Violet's reply was the last thing I heard before I was back in the basement.

"_Me too_."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Ceremonials_ - Florence + The Machine - released November 2011

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><p>AN: I'm sorry it's been a long while. Finals happened, and my grandfather died a few weeks ago, and it's just been... challenging to care about anything.

And sorry that this chapter is so short. And maybe random. I don't know. This is almost over, and I think that scares me a little bit.

A most merry Christmas holiday to those who celebrate; I hope you get everything you've ever wanted this year. I love you all.


	20. Breaking Down

**NOVEMBER 2011**

There was no person on Earth more foolish than Lawrence Harvey.

He was a bumbling idiot who made a series of increasingly stupid mistakes.

His initial mistakes were a double hit: The first was moving into the Murder House; and his second, of course, was falling in love with Constance. Because even if he were going to cheat on his incredibly loyal wife, I'd always figured he could find at least a marginally better option.

Over the next two decades he constantly proved himself to be an idiot, though nothing hit as hard as those first issues. At least not until the Harmons moved in.

Somehow, as the dysfunctional family was just planning to leave (or attempt to, in Violet's still-unrecovered case,) Larry decided to invade his horrible plot where it didn't belong.

It was as if he thought Ben and Vivien would never speak again, never once communicate about the strange man who'd attended the open house. It was as if he thought Constance still loved him, not that she ever truly did.

Thankfully, he was in good company with the other idiot inhabitants of the house.

In one fell swoop, ole Moira had nearly sold the house to a real estate developer who was hell-bent on tearing down the house. He told her that he was moving in, building her a swimming pool. She saw sheer revenge, believing the discovery of her remains would lead to Constance's arrest; but cold-served dishes aside, the rest of us couldn't escape the idea that she'd made a significant mistake.

No one knew why we were condemned to eternity in those brick walls, and it was a basic consensus that no one wanted to test how to reduce our sentence.

Nora was still spending her days in tears, wailing over her afterlife and how her equally insipid husband had done nothing but harm to everyone around him.

Tate, of course, was fawning over Violet all day.

With everyone else preoccupied with… _everyone _else, the only person I could stand anymore was a sheer surprise, as it was Hayden who I sought solace with more each passing day.

She was kind of an idiot herself, having thrown herself right into the grave because she loved Ben so much; but I couldn't be much of a judge on that, all things considered. It wasn't her lover that took the shovel to her head, anyway.

Hayden had interesting things to say. She knew about all the bizarre new technologies and could go on for hours about events she'd never had personal experience with in life.

And, despite her usual disdain for him, my new friend always kept me update on the latest in what Tate was doing.

On a near daily basis, I received a short summary of my ex-lover's activities, even if I didn't want to hear them.

It was relayed that he'd yet to tell Violet the big secret we were all keeping but had made some romantic confession that he thought her presence made the Murder House into some sort of heaven, and that he'd taught her how to make the spirits leave her alone, and that he'd said those fateful two words to sweet Beau because he was "scaring" Violet, and that he'd shown her all the secret treasures that were kept up in the attic.

I hated to hear about him, even just to hear his name. I hated to think about him with Violet, kissing her and touching her and _wanting _her. I hated that I couldn't escape the fact that I loved him even after all the bullshit he'd put me through, that I was the type of girl I'd never thought to be. Somehow, I felt that I knew he would grow tired of her eventually… just like he'd grown tired of me.

I just couldn't fucking hear about it.

But no matter how many times I screamed at Hayden to stop talking, to bring up anything other than how much a stupid little child meant to Tate, she always finished her report with a smirk on her lips and a gleam in her eyes.

Because no matter how many times I insisted everyone else in the house was stupid, I never once considered that maybe I was the too-trusting-love-undying idiot.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Ceremonials - _Florence + The Machine - released November 2011

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><p>AN: This occurs during the events of 'Open House,' in case anyone was wondering. Just a little something to get us through the month. I swear there is more, and it will be here soon.

P.S. This show has the most challenging timeline to write for, and this month was particularly bad for music, so beware album repeats. xo


	21. Mistress Dread

**NOVEMBER 2011**

The biggest mistake Tate ever could've made was killing Chad and Patrick.

I warned him that as much as he disliked them alive, he would really dislike them dead… when they'd be stuck in the house forever. Even Constance – in all her distaste for the couple's lifestyle – didn't think trapping them in such a permanent state was very bright. Everyone cautioned Tate that this murder was definitely and irrevocably a mistake.

Of course, Tate was infamous for his mistakes, so he did it anyway.

When I found out, I cried. He had only created more chaos through his anger, and caused a major shift in the politics of the house once again. Chad and Patrick were well-liked by those whom Tate had scorned – Moira was quickly a good friend to them, certainly, and she held power amongst the other spirits.

Even Tate realized he'd made life (or whatever this was we were experiencing) harder on himself. It was a major, colossal mistake.

Through my tears over the murder, I still helped Moira and Constance clean the blood off the basement floor. Their death was on my hands, too.

* * *

><p>It was an ordinary Monday, nothing spectacular happening in the house other than Violet being that much closer to finding out about Tate. And I guess, by default, finding out about me, too.<p>

I was sitting on the floor of Tate's room, hiding myself from the other ghosts and Mr. Harmon, when suddenly both Tate and Violet came crashing through the door. Kissing passionately.

Then he pulled his dingy sweater over his head, revealing his pale chest, and immediately, I froze. They didn't know I was there, or at least Violet didn't. She was about to give her virginity to Tate, something I could only pretend to do, and I couldn't force my legs to move away. It was like watching one of those vehicle safety tapes from school, where they talk about how badly disfigured someone for not wearing a seatbelt, and it's horrifying but everyone still watches in rapt fascination.

Off came Violet's skirt and tights, Tate's ripped jeans. Then both his boxers and her panties were gone in one fell swoop as their bodies hit the bed.

He was beautiful. He was _always _beautiful, even when he was crawling on top of another girl. I was cursed twice in my after-life: one, I had to stay forever in a house that would never be my home; and two, I would never be able to find Tate as disgusting as I should have. I would always and forever see him as my own private God.

But I did receive some redemption for my pain when tried to remove her shirt, only to have his hands swatted away from it. She didn't let him take it off her, and I had to laugh. Attempting to preserve modesty when he was about to fuck her seemed like a classic Violet move.

He entered her slowly, her eyes shut tight like a horror movie was playing. For me, the scene may as well have been Freddie Krueger slashing someone up in his dream hell. But for her, it was genuine pain.

Tate grunted out her name, fully sheathed inside her tightness, and before I knew it, his eyes were staring into mine. Challenging me with his smirk, letting me know he _knew _I was there. And that, I suppose, was my third death curse: I had never been able to hide myself from him, no matter how desperately I tried.

His look, however, broke the spell, and I found my legs carrying me from the room faster than I ever thought possible. I'd once again been chased from my own room by my lover.

Or murderer. Or whatever he was.

My stranger.

* * *

><p>The second biggest mistake – the one that would divide the house indefinitely – was the rubber man.<p>

Because Tate, with all his undying and childlike love for Nora, used the disguise to fuck Vivien. It might have been forgivable, might have been something I could live with or at the least forget, had he not lied about it for half a year.

When I finally did find out, from Hayden of all people, it was more than just a betrayal: it was an embarrassment.

I found Tate in the basement, sitting there like the corpse he should've been and staring at the dingy wall.

"Tate," I half-yelled as soon as I saw him. His gaze quickly snapped to mine, his eyes looking almost concerned like they once might have. "What the _fuck _are you thinking anymore?"

"What?" he sneered, clearly not understanding why I was breaking my radio silence toward him just to fight.

It was almost laughable – his ability to ruin my existence without even realizing.

"Well, for one thing, I heard you're planning on a baby heist once Vivien gets pregnant," I stated firmly. "Oh, and I also heard about how you snuck into her bed and raped her in that sick S&M costume last year."

"You're upset because of my act of brilliance?" Tate questioned, eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline.

"In what sick world are you living in that fucking Vivien Harmon was an act of brilliance?"

"In _this _world," he emphasized. "I'm living in _this _sick and disturbed world that – for whatever reason – is completely inescapable no matter what we do. Vivien has the babies, she dies or gets taken away or whatever, and the babies stay here. With us. It'll be good for Nora to have a baby again; she won't be so sad all the time."

I scoffed at that.

Even though Tate and I had been together for half a lifetime, he still didn't consider the reality of how his actions would affect _me. _He acted for everyone but me – for himself, for Violet, for _Nora_. The reality that had been trying to consume my brain was suddenly becoming overpowering: even after so many years, it was possible that Tate had never loved me.

"When do I get to stop being sad?" I questioned quietly, realizing that we'd both been silent for several moments. I didn't notice the tears forming until they hit my cheeks. _Pathetic little girl crying for him again. _

"When you realize that, in this house, you're the only one who wants to hurt you."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Lulu _- Lou Reed & Metallica - released November 2011

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><p>AN: Oh, um. Hi. It's... been a while. I'm the worst, you all are amazing, etc. This chapter takes place during the events of "Rubber Man."

Also, question for those who want to answer: In an ideal universe, how would you want to see this story end? Where do you want to see Freyja at that point? What about Tate? I'm wrapping things up, and I'm kind of torn between a few ideas, so I'd like to know _your_ opinion.


	22. Brandenburg Gate

**NOVEMBER 2011 (cont.)**

I left Tate in the basement alone, staring at the wall in his indifference. Even though I knew was speaking Hayden passed by me on her descent, and I probably should have stopped her, – she was still a seductive bitch, despite how well we got along, – but I let her go.

If she wanted to ruin Tate and Violet's relationship at the risk of her already-poor reputation, I wasn't going to stop her.

After that night, however, the situation in Murder House escalated even quicker.

Vivien was carted off to the "supervised" part of the hospital, as Ben and Violet both fell deeper into their depressions. It was actually quite sad – the relatively normal family that the Harmons once were was a distant and hazy memory.

Hayden successfully seduced Constance's new boy toy, Travis, worming her way back into importance.

And everyone – including Constance – found out that Tate was the freak-accident father of one of Vivien's twins.

When the Southern matriarch made the discovery, of course, she reacted in true dramatic fashion.

I had been playing with Beau in the attic, trying not to think about what would happen to Murder House after this all ended, when the atmosphere shifted. There was a sudden jolt of distress running through the house, causing Beau to begin screaming before he retreated to the darkest corner of the room. It was a heavy feeling in the air, and I was running down the basement stairs before I could even process the motion.

Constance passed me in the stairway, pushing me against the wall as she went.

"You better get him under control, you little whore," she spat at me. "He's going to ruin us all."

I couldn't even think of a response before she was storming through the door, but her words ignited a concern that I hadn't felt since years before. My feet moved quickly down the remaining steps, stopping only when I had reached the source of sadness.

And suddenly, every time I wished for Tate to cry – to hurt, to feel even one millisecond of the pain he had caused – washed away.

Because there he was, beautiful and blonde and _perfect_, weeping in a dark corner of the basement.

"Tate," I spoke quietly, carefully eyeing him for any reaction. When he only cried harder, I knelt beside him, pulling his wrecked body into my weak arms. In moments, I felt his own arms wrapping around my torso, his tears soaking my t-shirt.

We sat there in the dark for a long time, and I felt sick at the happiness I experienced being able to hold him again. I didn't dwell on the thought too long, however, because I feared that once he recovered from whatever had plagued him he would be distant again, running from me straight into Violet's arms. His sobs eventually ended, but he didn't release his hold on me.

"I fucked up," he whispered, breaking our silence. "Constance hates me. And she's going to tell Violet what I did, so she'll hate me, too… _You_ hate me."

It was almost laughable. He thought I hated him? The girl who would have willingly given up her whole existence for him? The girl who loved him even after he took her life, even after he abandoned her? I had certainly tried to hate him, but I never could quite manage it the way I wanted.

Because he was Tate. He was my person. My soul-mate forever even when we both fucked up. I had loved him from the start, and would love him until the end.

"I love you," I whispered finally. If he needed to know love, I would always make sure he did.

"I don't see how that's possible," he muttered in response. "I ruined your life by being selfish, and I ruined your afterlife by being selfish. And it's so stupid because I loved you – I love you – even though I've tried to stop because I thought I loved Violet too, and you were just… you were so mad at me, and so mean to her from it, so I was horrible to you over it, and… I don't think I would love you if things were different."

"Well, you just aren't as good of a person," I half-laughed, unsure how to handle his words. He didn't laugh, but a smile stretched across his lips – a Tate smile.

Before I could react, I felt those lips against mine, pulling me into him like a riptide. It was overwhelming and wonderful, and it was us. Nothing else mattered. We were Tate and Freyja. Just like we always had been.

…Except we weren't.

Because Tate had left me for some game with Violet, because he had manipulated the Harmons for his own gain, because he had gone into our high school with a gun and killed our classmates, because he had gone into our high school with a gun and killed Kevin.

Because I had tried to move on from my anger about what he did, but Tate just couldn't stop himself.

So, instead of kissing him back – which is what every fiber of my being wanted to do – I pulled away from him.

Staring into his dark eyes with tears in my own, the words left my mouth before I could stop them, flowing through the dark and melancholic feeling that was trying to drown me:

"Go away, Tate."

Just like that, he was gone. I knew, in my heart, that he was still technically there, but not being able to see him was satisfying. It didn't matter what he did now, because I'd never see it.

I wasn't sure whether I was so upset because he had violated me with that kiss, violated the hatred I had worked so hard to manufacture, or because he had violated Vivien Harmon.

It truly felt like a betrayal, more than anything he'd ever done.

He had done what no one thought possible. He had given Vivien – this strange woman he hardly knew – a baby. He had given her an opportunity that he'd stolen from me.

It had never been a secret that I wanted to grow up and have babies, that I wanted Tate to be their dad.

Now, Tate was going to be a father, and still: I would never be a mom.

Vivien had always seemed kind, and she had stuck with Ben even though he was awful. I imagined that, sitting in her padded stark hospital room, pregnant and alone, she was still on his side. Stand by your man, all that shit. I could relate.

She didn't deserve what happened to her, what _Tate_ did to her.

But her violation brought a strange sense of clarity to my mind: _No one_ deserved what Tate did to them.

Especially not me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>_Lulu _- Lou Reed + Metallica - released November 2011

* * *

><p>AN: CRINGE. I AM SO SORRY. An _entire season_ aired since I've last updated, which is just... a little sad on my part. But alas: Life happens, and life can sometimes make a creative mind to suffer.

Items of note: 1] This chapter picks up exactly where the last one ended, and continues largely into 'Spooky Little Girl.' I like this chapter, but maybe it's horrible? I never know. There are only a few chapters left in this story, and they will (hopefully) be posted within the next few months.  
>[2] Fun fact: I save a lot of my work to notes in my phone when inspiration strikes and I'm away from home (which is often), and I wrote the actual best ending to this story a few weeks ago... And then proceeded to accidentally delete it because I'm shite at technology. UGH.<p>

LOVE YOU ALL. Please review/follow/whatever because honestly that's the only thing keeping me motivated.


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